


Rolling Atlantic

by feyestwords



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Cannibalism, Domestic, Drinking, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Loss, M/M, Murder, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Religion, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyestwords/pseuds/feyestwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal survive the fall and go on the run, attempting to find somewhere to settle down and live their lives together - but their appetite keeps them from staying in one place for too long. Will works his way through his intense feelings towards Hannibal, Hannibal adapts to an ever-changing Will, and both are forced to emotionally navigate through something that neither one of them expected. "Soon, all of this will be lost to the sea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Highwater

  
  


 

Water. Pulling at his limbs. Tossing him around. A light, above him. Below him? He opened his mouth. It filled his lungs. His wounds. Stung his eyes. Black. Insidious. He turned, curled into himself, then felt his limbs forced backwards. His lungs screamed. The burning in his chest not dulled at all by the frigidity against his skin.

Blackness. He faded out, frantic. Clutching at nothing.

His shoulder scraped against something, hard. He thrashed. Twisted his body around. His palm connected with something else. Small, smooth rocks. He pushed off of them. Head breaking the surface. Plummeting back into the world. The water seared his throat coming up, as did the air coming in. Choking. His hand slipped, and again, he fell into the water. He scrambled forward, hands grabbing at rocks, sending them swirling behind him as he pulled himself forward. Head out of the water, again. Gasping.

A sudden swell and he was pushed several feet forward. Chest scraping against the ground, water rushing up past his feet and towards his head, then retreating. He tried to rise to his knees to crawl, but fell. Clawed forward even still. The water rushed in again, up to his waist. Back out. Then up to his calves. His ankles.

Will Graham lie on jagged rocks, panting. Freezing.

Alive.

Soaking hair clinging to his forehead and water in his eyes. He rolled over onto his back and felt the sting of dirt and salt in his wounds. Chest moving up and down, stretching stab wounds open, then closed, sucking in salt water and spitting out blood. Shaking hands felt the wound on his cheek. Dolarhyde’s knife had sliced his gums as well. He rolled again, onto his side, chest screaming, and spit out the iron taste, the dirt. His ears popped and he heard, magnified, the water rushing out of him. His head rushed as well. Spinning and static. He tried to focus on his breathing. Tried to slow it. Adrenaline lit his body aflame, pain shooting into every limb.

It was dark still. The only light came from the moon. The sky, near the horizon, was a deep navy. Morning was just hours away.

Will opened and closed his eyes several times. Rubbing at them with dirty palms. Pushing his hair to the side. He crawled further up onto the shore, every movement agonizing. The water against his ankles felt as if it would drag him back at any moment. He sat up, slowly, grimacing as his body protested. The blood that had been washed away by the water oozed back onto his clothes. His arms covered in large disgusting bruises. He blinked. Pupils dilating. Adjusting. He glanced around and saw that he was on an incredibly small and rocky beach, carved out of the bluff by the erosion, adorned here and there by black and jagged boulders.

Several yards down the beach, a body floated, caught between the shore and a large rock, held in place by the tide.

The metallic taste filled Will’s mouth again. He felt sick.

His body fought him, but Will made his way to his hands and knees, then his knees, then his feet. He took a small unsteady step forward, then another, then a third. He fell, elbows against rocks to protect his chest. More pain. A sharp intake of breath. He stumbled to his feet again. Each step sent a sharp hotness throughout his body.

Hannibal floated, slightly, on his side, half held up by the rocks. A wave came and he rolled forward, face into the water, then onto his back as the water went back out. His body soaked in black. Will did not think about his movements. He grabbed Hannibal by the shoulders and dragged him laboriously up onto the beach. He fell, again, and yelped. A stabbing throbbed at his side. He slid his arm under Hannibal’s mangled shoulder and, on his hands and knees, continued to drag him further up onto the shore, heaving him a foot at a time, just out of reach of the water.

Eyes closed. Mouth hung open. Hannibal was covered in too much blood. An enormous gash on his shoulder left the sweater around it ripped and tattered. Will saw a piece of his scalp sliced open, just above and behind his ear. It flopped over and hung towards the ground. The blood from it matted his hair and covered his face, pooled at the inner corner of his eye, the side of his nose. A slow but steady pumping of blood onto the pebbles. An enormous and still forming bruise spread across what was visible of his chest, reaching up towards his neck. Red and purple. His arm twisted at an impossible angle. Will realized that the lump in Hannibal’s sleeve was a protruding bone, snapped at the wrist and forced through his the skin.

Will reached out. Closed his eyes, breathed out through his nose. Forced his breathing to slow. Ignored the blood seeping from his own wounds. Pressed two fingers to Hannibal’s neck, tried to find a pulse, but his fingers would not stop trembling for long enough. He leaned over Hannibal’s open mouth, put the side of his face, his ear, up to it. Held his breath. Tried to feel, to hear, something.

Nothing.

Will found the strength to sit up, back onto his knees.

He stared at Hannibal’s body. Something washed over him, like being doused in cold water. Hands began trembling even more.

_Do nothing._

Heartbeat against his ribcage like a ricocheting bullet. Hissing in his ears. It could end. Here. Now.

_Leave._

He willed himself.

_Do. **Nothing**._

And then he was counting, rhythmically, hands pressed together, and against Hannibal’s chest. Pumping. Not thinking. One. Two. Three. Pause.

Nothing.

One. Two. Three. Leaning over, listening, feeling.

Still nothing.

_No. No, no, no._

One. Two. Three. Harder. His chest and shoulders ached with every pump. One. Two. Three.

“Come on.”

He tilted Hannibal’s head back, grabbed his chin and opened his mouth. Blew into it. His lungs burned. Hands on his chest, again. One. Two. Three. Mouth. Chest. Nothing.

“Please.” One, two, three. Will pressed against his chest harder. Blew air more forcefully. “ _Please._ ” He leaned forward onto his knees. Began using the weight of his body, up, and down, with every pump, through his shoulders into his wrists. He felt a rib shift in his side. Ignored the pain. Then the cracking of Hannibal’s ribs under his palms. Began to panic. One. Two. Three.

Hannibal’s body tensed, convulsed. Will sat back, frozen, stared. A gargling from Hannibal’s throat. Water forced its way out of his mouth. He coughed. More water. Again. Even more, now mixed with blood. It dripped down the side of his face, onto his neck, chin, hair. He continued coughing, eyes opening and closing rapidly. Face turning red. Will wanted to tell him to breathe, but didn’t.

He took a deep and rattling gasp, wincing. Then another. Rapid and desperate. His eyes opened, pointed at the sky. Irises flying around wildly, unable to focus on one thing. Rolled back, slightly. Another gargling from his chest and throat. Will realized what was happening, grabbed Hannibal’s shoulder opposite him and rolled him to his side. He vomited, more water, onto the beach. A fit of sickening coughs. Vomited again. Gasping. Water from his stomach washing away the blood from his head. Broken arm limp, tucked against his abdomen. With each retch he curled into himself. Soon there was no more water left to expel and he rested his head against the beach, eyes closed, breathing heavily through his mouth. Unbroken arm clutching at Will’s knee.

Will slumped. Sat down and put his legs out in front of him. Leaned backwards on his arms. Face to the moon. Catching his breath for the first time. His own pain came slowly back to him. Hannibal, still lying next to him, rolled onto his back. Labored breathing, but still.

Breathing.

His wild eyes settled on Will’s. Narrowed in confusion. Looked around again. Back at Will. Voice hoarse.

“You-?” He looked up the side of the cliff.

Will did too. “Yes.”

Eyes closed. Hannibal nodded.

“And… we…?”

“Yes.”

Minutes passed. Breathing slowed. Clouds shrouded and then uncovered the moon. The navy horizon losing its deep hue. The air now felt as frigid as the water. It lapped at the edges of the beach, now retreating, further and further away. Hannibal grunted, began to try and sit up.

“Stay still.” Will turned to look at him. He looked broken. Left for dead. Hannibal persisted to rise. “Don’t move.” He sat. Breathing heavily again.

“I am…” Each word a challenge. Deep breaths between them. “I am in an incredible amount of pain.” It was annoyingly matter-of-fact.

“Me too.”

He looked down. “My arm is broken.”

“It is.”

Hannibal looked around the beach intently, as if he were studying it. Taking in as much as he could in a matter of seconds. He reached up, felt, gently, the piece of his scalp that hung off his head. Clenched it between two fingers, and, biting down on his lip, ripped it from his head. Will watched with a frown. Hannibal shifted a few feet closer to the water.

“We shouldn’t be bleeding so much this far up on the shore.” He put the piece of scalp onto a small, jagged rock close to the water, bloody inside facing upwards. Dug it in with the back of his good wrist. Then reached up and tore a few bloody threads from his sweater that hung off his shoulder. Leaned over and tossed them towards another, larger rock.

Will watched, mindless. Hannibal was already plotting. Broken and bloody and in ruin, but planning. Calculating. Will wanted to be shocked. But his own shock stopped him from processing much of anything.

Hannibal was looking at him now, eyes darting between Will and his own bits of scalp. Will, still mindless, did as silently instructed. Reached up and tore a bit of skin from the cut at his cheek. The air stung the newly exposed flesh. He stumbled to his feet, shuffled down the shore, closer to the water, to Hannibal. Left the bit of flesh on a rock near Hannibal’s, pressed it down to keep it in place.

He looked down at Hannibal, still on the ground. Hannibal looked up at him.

“We need to go back to the house.” Hannibal nodded, eyebrows lowered, wincing, looking out at the water. Words were too much. He caught his breath. “I have medical supplies there. We’ll both die here if we don’t get to them soon.”

The information was simple and sensible enough for Will’s scattered mind to grasp. He nodded.

Hannibal propped up on the elbow of his mangled arm. Reached up with the other. Will grasped his hand and bicep, and, with a tremendous amount of effort, pulled Hannibal to his feet. He leaned against Will, shaking and gasping. Scrunched eyes and unsteady feet.

“You know the way?”

Hannibal’s grip tightened on Will’s shoulder. He tucked his chin into his chest.

“Give me just a moment, please.”

“Sorry.”

Hannibal’s knees weakened, he took an uneasy step and began to tip to the side. Will caught him with his own shoulder, propped him upright.

“Yes.” Hannibal nodded, having trouble with swallowing and breathing and talking and standing all at once. “There’s a small trail.” A deep, hissing exhale. “We’ll need to walk in the water to get to it, leave as little indentation as possible. The tide should take care of that but it’s better to be careful.” He pressed his hand tightly against the wound on his scalp.

“Can you walk?”

“I can.” He tilted again on unsteady legs, eyes still shut.

“Hannibal.”

Open eyes. Repeated, reassured both Will and himself. “I can.”

Will bent, tucked his head under Hannibal’s arm, taking part of Hannibal’s weight to himself. He stood. Hannibal steadied.

“Thank you.”

Bitter. “Don’t.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

By the time they reached the house, the sky had turned a dull shade of light blue, undertones of gray. Morning. Shirts starched with blood dried stuck to skin, damp at the sources. Pebbles shaken loose from hair. Will estimated it had been just over an hour, though everything was blurred and nothing seemed quite real. It could have been two, or three. The winding trail through the trees around and up the side of the bluff, though smooth, and paved at parts, had proven incredibly difficult. Each step squeezed blood from his chest. He had stopped repeatedly to prop Hannibal up alongside a tree so that they both may catch their breath, listening carefully when Hannibal told him where and how much to bleed.

Around a bend in the path, through a clearing of trees. Will spotted the sharp angles of the roof, close, and very suddenly did not want to get any closer. An air of finality hung above the house. Wisps of death and endings. He focused, consciously, on putting one foot in front of the other. Dreaded every step. Hannibal’s arm felt heavier and heavier over his shoulders.

And then there was the Dragon. Will had no idea how he would feel seeing Dolarhyde’s corpse. A small part of him trapped in the icy fear that he would not actually be where they’d left him. That all was for naught. But there was no way. They had killed him. Will felt it. He felt it, again, as they neared the patio. Stronger the closer they got. Dolarhyde lie, unmoved, unchanged. Blood around him dried and sunken into the stone, seeped into the cracks.

With Will’s help, Hannibal lowered himself slowly onto the long wooden bench near Dolarhyde’s body. A long exhale. Will stood, between the bench and the Dragon, all but mesmerized. His eyes glazed over and stared upwards at a sky Will could not see. Jagged bits of flesh hanging into his throat. Stomach nearly black with blood where Will had cut him. He was not so fearful now, now that he was no longer the Dragon. He was a broken and pitiful being. Will had seen to that. Air felt fresher in his lungs. This was all because of him. Look at what I’ve done. What I’ve created.

_This is my design._

He made himself look away and turned instead to look at Hannibal, who was eyeing him just as he had Dolarhyde. Both waited for the other to speak. But Will did not want acknowledgment.

“Where are the supplies.” Flat.

“There is a medical kit.” Hannibal, eyes now closed, words still a struggle. “In the bathroom on the first floor, the hallway off of the kitchen.” Deep breath. “No shoes. Avoid stepping in the glass, and the-” He stopped. Lifted his head towards the house, eyes narrowed. He inhaled, slowly, deeply. “…I don’t seem to be able to smell the wine.” He looked to Will. “I hope, for your sake, that fall didn’t damage any of my nerves.”

Will stared back. Arms hanging tense at his sides.

Hannibal finally blinked. “A joke.”

At least he wasn’t talking about Dolarhyde. Still, Will scowled. Turned without a word, walked to the house. “Some water, please.” Hannibal called out. Will said nothing. Kicked off his shoes and stepped through the shattered window, balanced on the balls of his feet, floor cold against his socks, stepping carefully around shards. It was expectedly difficult to remain balanced with his body so fatigued. The subtle sweetness of the Valpolicella, the stale smell of unused furniture. Will felt the familiar uncertainty of the previous night come back to him. Anxiety slowly permeating the shock.

The first aid kit, which was really just a converted suitcase, was on the top shelf of the linen closet. Will pulled it off the shelf and half dropped it on the ground, not anticipating the weight of it. In the corner of his eye he glimpsed himself. Turned to look in the mirror and found that it wasn’t actually him staring back. Or maybe it was. Eyes blackened. Cheek sliced. Bits of blood and dirt all over his face, congealed on his jaw. Pale from blood loss. Will in the mirror was not the same Will as yesterday. He was someone different. Someone… more.

Will had to pry his enamored eyes away. Kit gripped tight in one hand. Out of breath just from carrying it down the hallway. He stopped near the kitchen to catch his breath, and grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator. The phone mounted on the wall next to the fridge seemed to shimmer. Alluring.

One call and this would all end.

He picked up the kit and the water and made his way back outside.

Hannibal sat up as Will approached, arm outstretched. His entire hand shook as he took the water, and he winced as he drank it. Will set the kit down on the ground beside him, opened it, kneeled in front of the bench. Silently got to work. He pulled Hannibal’s shirt forward and cut upwards at the front of it. Blade gliding gently against skin. Hannibal held his breath when they reached his collar. Stared, unblinking, at Will, who held the scissors there for a moment too long, staring back. A surge of… something spread across his shoulders, into his arms, into the scissors. Warm and calming. Tingling. _If I were going to kill you, I would have left you on the beach._ He could have said. Didn’t. Put the scissors down. Began peeling back fabric from skin, dried blood along with it. Slowly pulled the sleeves from his arms.

Will had gotten the worst of the Dragon but Hannibal had gotten the worst of the fall. He sat before Will, extremely pale, struggling to breathe normally, shaking slightly. Consciousness unexplainable. His entire chest shades of red, dark purple, one enormous bruise littered with small scrapes and scratches. A small pulsing trickle of blood still seeped from both the deep gash on his shoulder, and the bullet hole on his side.

Will took Hannibal’s sides in his hands and peered closely at the circular wound. Moved around and examined the entry wound as well.

“It went right through.” Will mumbled. Hannibal already knew, of course. “Clean entry and exit. Not too bad.” He set to work, alcohol and water, gauze taped over both wounds, a large roll of cloth bandages wrapped tightly around Hannibal’s midsection to keep it – and his ribs - in place. Not perfect, but it would do for now. The bandages were stained seconds later by the blood from the gash on Hannibal’s shoulder. Will dabbed at it with a wad of gauze. Picked out small rocks embedded in the flesh with a pair of tweezers. Cleaned and sanitized. If anything hurt, Hannibal did not show it. His eyes were closed, head limp, breathing slow and focused. It quickened slightly, but remained steady, when the first stitch was pulled shut. Will held his tongue between his teeth as tightly as the needle between his fingers, the tips wet with blood. Wondered where Hannibal had gone.

He moved to Hannibal’s arm and was surprised how little the gruesome sight of it fazed him. The wrist had swollen to the same width of the hand itself, deep purple. Bone stained pink, poking through the side of his arm. A lucky, clean break.

“I’m going to set your arm.”

Hannibal’s nod was microscopic. Will nodded in response, reassuring only himself. He gripped Hannibal’s wrist and, in one quick squeezing motion, pushed the bone back through the skin, snapping it into place. Hannibal attempted to swallow a yelp. Leaned forward and vomited the water. As Will stitched and bandaged, he held his forehead in his palm, breathing heavily through an open mouth and clenched teeth.

“I am severely concussed.”

Will reached up, took Hannibal’s face in his hand and turned it to the side, brushing his hair away from the gash on his head.

“I’ve lost a lot - ” He paused, eyes screwed shut, when Will splashed alcohol onto the cut. “ – a lot of blood, but I need to remain conscious.” Things Will already knew. The cut was deep but not wide. It would only need a few stitches. “At least for a while longer.” Speaking only to keep himself awake. Will finished the stitches, wrapped around Hannibal’s head, gauze over the wound. Sat back on his knees.

“You’re done for now.” Moved onto himself. Unbuttoned his shirt to his navel, leaning forward and clumsily pulled his arms out of his sleeves, feeling his broken ribs shift under his skin. He too was bruised, biceps and forearms, but the extent of the damage came from Dolarhyde’s knife. Muscles sliced, ribs scratched. Quick jabs left thin but deep punctures. The alcohol burned white hot inside of them. Will’s hands began to shake. He had to move fast, not think about it.

“Will.”

He continued to work. Cloth turning pinker with each gentle dab, droplets of blood tainted alcohol rolling down his stomach.

“Will, I need to know.”

“Need to know what.” Blunt. Eyes on his chest. Feeling the cuts, trying to determine which and how many needed stitches.

“If you’re going to call Jack.”

He looked up. Hannibal appeared before him, eyes soft, slumped shoulders but head high. Dignity in defeat. Will stared. Hands slowed.

“They’re coming.” Hannibal continued unprompted. “It will take them a while to find this place, but they’re coming all the same.” A pause. “Naturally… I would like to run. But in my current condition I wouldn’t make it very far. And if I am to return, I’d like to go willingly, so that I may retain at least some of my privileges. They’ve taken my books before. They’ll take more this time.”

“You… want to surrender?” Will tried to work his mind through Hannibal’s words.

“No. Should you give me the choice, or rather, the opportunity, I would run.” He swallowed. Swayed slightly, uneasy and unbalanced. “I will tell them that I killed the Tooth Fairy and that I tried to kill you as well. If you ask me to.”

Will knew what was coming next. Wished he had a few moments to compose himself, to prepare, to think.

“Or.”

The inevitability of a single syllable. Will stopped breathing.

“You could come with me, Will.” Hannibal’s voice stopped the world. “There is enough evidence of our deaths. They will see that we’ve fallen, find our remains on the shore, and look no further.”

Will turned to his own bloodstains on the patio, where he and Hannibal had stood and held and seen each other.

“Jack wouldn’t buy it.” Shakily.

“Jack directly aided in my escape. I doubt he’ll carry much influence in the investigation.”

Will looked at Hannibal.

“Go home. Be who you were before. Or leave it all behind. Accept what happened and who you now are.” Hannibal could not hide the small flecks of hope in his already unsure eyes. Will saw them too, and suddenly overwhelmingly knew, if he wanted to, he could destroy them. The surge of something, from before, returned, a warm and powerful calmness atop his shoulders. Control. Absolute. It was intoxicating. Hannibal had taken his remaining years and handed them over, a frail and shaking heart in Will’s steady hands. He held it, turned it over, considered it. Breathed. He could crush it, and Hannibal would be all but helpless. It was his first instinct.

But not his strongest.

He closed his eyes. Felt his knife tear through the belly of the dragon. Felt his bloody face in the crook of Hannibal’s neck.

He had made his decision on the beach.

“Where do we go?”


	2. Erosion

Sleep came in bouts of unpleasant unconsciousness; consciousness was met by brief moments of confusion. 

_What…where?_

_… Oh._

The couch was old and stiff and breaking apart. It surprisingly wasn’t quite long enough for all of Will, and bending his legs left his knees cold and exposed over the edge. Fabric dense and coarse, scratching at his skin. It had originally been covered by the knitted blanket of the previous tenants, but Will had thrown it to the floor. He couldn’t sleep on that.

Hannibal, of course, had offered to share the queen-sized bed in the single bedroom of the cabin. Will responded in silence, taking a pillow and blanket from the bedroom and tossing them, and himself, onto the couch in the small living area, near the fireplace. It was wrong to share a bed so soon. Wrong to share a bed after what Hannibal had done to the couple who shared it. Will kicked the blankets into position, and pretended he was comfortable. Hannibal stood for a moment. Walked to the bedroom. Closed the door.

_“That’s a pity.”_

_Will looked at Hannibal, questioning._

_“I didn’t expect it to be occupied.” Foot off the break. Gentle on the accelerator. Hannibal slowly rolled down the rest of the long grass driveway, right up to the cabin. Will caught a glimpse of a woman peeking out the window._

_“Hannibal…” A slow realization. Eyes darting back and forth between him and the door._

_Hannibal took off his seatbelt, opened the car door, and walked up to the cabin. A friendly wave to the couple at the window, a charming smile._

_Will closed his eyes and waited in the car._

On his side, back to the world, eyes scrunched shut. He tried to will himself to sleep, to ignore the sounds of Hannibal, in the bathroom down the hall, working late into the night. Hacking. The sound of large gushes of blood splattering against the acrylic bathtub like the banging of drums. He barely slept, if he slept at all. Time passed where all was quiet, and he was warm, his eyes were closed and breathing slowed. But he was conscious. Somewhere something was ticking.

When black skies turned to navy and lighter blues, Will gave up on sleep. His side ached as he sat up. He prodded at his ribs with gentle fingers. Sore, made worse by the couch. His chest a constant ache. Feet cold against the ground. He tugged off his shirt where he stood, tucking his chin against his chest and examining his bandages. Some had bled through their stitches, no doubt during the night when he twisted himself to try and find a comfortable position.

The bathroom was immaculate. Will wasn’t surprised.

Lukewarm water burning his cuts. Pressure stabbing against his chest like tiny bullets. He tilted his head forward, forehead into the water, letting it rush over his head and eyes and nose and ears. Submerged. Blackness but for the sound of rushing in his ears. The Dragon appeared before him and the water became tainted with salt. His eyes flew open, hand slamming down the knob. He stood ankle deep in now scalding water, shaking.

Will towel dried his hair halfway. A steady rhythm of droplets soaked the tops of his shoulders, shirt clinging to skin. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ears. Sat on the toilet and laced his shoes. He didn’t know why. They weren’t going anywhere. Not for a while. Hannibal had made that very clear. Will opened the door and steam from the shower rushed into the vacuum of the cabin and disappeared. It was colder outside the bathroom. Will wished he could have stayed under the water longer. An unsettlingly familiar smell singed his nostrils.

Hannibal was in the kitchen, standing over the gas stove, poking something with a fork. Sizzling. He turned when Will entered. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

Will didn’t answer. He stood at the end of the kitchen, in the doorway, watching with slightly narrowed eyes. Hannibal took the pan off the heat, awkwardly tilted it over a plate with his one usable arm.

“Hungry?”

Will didn’t have to ask what Hannibal was cooking. Eyes narrowed further. An apathetic glare. 

Hannibal looked up at Will, saw his gaze, his tight and squared shoulders, his clenched jaw. Nodded, to himself, in understanding. The smell became too much for Will, he turned on his heel and left Hannibal alone in the kitchen. Sickened.

He busied himself, looking around the cabin for small pictures, tucked away in kitchen cabinets, the corners of bathroom mirrors, between the pages of books. Portraits and hand knitted blankets. Receipts and old birthday cards. Any sign of a life lived, a home. Will had collected as many as he could find yesterday, immediately upon entering the house, and put them in a small box. He scoured the house for any other personal items until a soft midmorning light crept into the cabin.

Will took the box to the small grill behind the cabin and lit it ablaze. Flecks of two lives twirling and dancing upwards from the flames, tiny glowing orange orbs, disappearing into plumes of black and murky gray. Consumed. Will’s eyes stung. Smoke burned his nostrils and his throat. He stood, shivering in front of it until nothing was left but a smoldering pile of crumpled ash. 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day. Hannibal took intermittent naps to stave off the headaches from his concussion. Will hiked through the woods around the cabin, careful not to stray too far.

The second night was quieter than the first, but no more peaceful. Hannibal did not offer the bed again but left the door open. Will frowned at the couch but lay down on it all the same. Ribs shifting as he twisted around. Eyes closed. Ticking, somewhere, still. A forceful exhale, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Every time he felt himself drifting off, his brain would gently kick him back into awareness. He got up for water, unsure if it had been ten minutes or two hours. Through the kitchen window over the sink, he saw omnipresent black, the cabin swallowed by the tall evergreens. Shielded from the light of the moon and the stars. 

Something flickered behind the trees, far away. Will squinted. It flickered again, moving slowly. Headlights, half a mile down, on the main road, disappearing behind trees. He froze. The headlights stopped moving and instead grew steadily larger. Driving towards the cabin. More headlights behind it. Suddenly the night exploded into screaming blues and reds. Will ducked down, eyes wide. He tried to scream for Hannibal. Three squad cars, two vans, a squat team. Jack Crawford stepped out of the black SUV at the front of the convoy.

Will startled awake. Drenched. Deep heaving breaths. Sat up and peered out the window. Saw only blackness.

Morning came and with it, an uneven and nervous air. Will drummed his fingers against the bathroom sink. Stared into the mirror. He needed to do _something_ , or else _something_ would happen. He had no idea what. Eyes locked onto his own, tingling in his limbs, the frantic paralysis of indecision.

Hannibal was cooking, again. He had brought two plates to the small table between the kitchen and living area, and sat, eating silently, when Will walked in. He did not say good morning as his eyes trailed Will to the kitchen sink. He gripped the edge and looked outside.

“I’ve made breakfast.” He offered in careful words.

Will turned and looked.

“It’s sausage. I promise.”

He looked back outside. Hannibal put down his fork.

“You have to eat.” Low and gentle. “Please, Will.”

Through the window, Will looked around the property, the small front yard, down through the trees and around the house. Nothing. Unsatisfied, for whatever reason. He left the kitchen.

Early in the afternoon, Hannibal called for Will, who sat restless and uncomfortable in the chair outside the front door, eyes fixed on empty spaces between trees. Inside, Hannibal was lying on the couch, on his back, head and eyes covered with a washcloth.

“I would be grateful for some water, and some aspirin.” The cadence alone enough to tell Will the severity of Hannibal’s migraine. He obliged, wordlessly, fetching the water and aspirin, pressing the pills into Hannibal’s open palm, placing the water on the coffee table. Reaching slowly, pinching the corners between his thumbs and forefingers, he peeled the washcloth off of Hannibal’s face. Hannibal scrunched his eyes in response. Will took a new washcloth, cold and dripping, and laid it atop his forehead, gently. He left without speaking.

Blue into purples into darker blues. They never turned on too many lights after it got dark, despite their isolation. Always better to be safe.

The dim lighting in the room made things a little difficult. They sat together, half undressed, on the bed. Opposite sides, facing opposite walls. Between them, a small pile of discarded gauze. Will examined the cuts on his chest with clean fingers. They were healing surprisingly well. Over his shoulder and out of his periphery, he watched Hannibal struggle. Twisting awkwardly as he unwrapped bandages from his midsection. It took a few minutes. His good arm, marred with a deep gash on the shoulder, was a bit more of a struggle. He could not unwrap the bandages with his broken wrist. Attempts to move his shoulder around to loosen the bandages were met with small winces of pain. He tucked his head down and began biting at the bandages. Will’s chest, now clean and wrapped in fresh snowy bandages, tightened slightly. He stood, walked to the other side of the bed, and sat next to Hannibal.

“Here.” It was the first word he had spoken directly to Hannibal since their arrival two days ago. Hannibal let his shoulder go slack, arms at his sides. Will tried to pretend he couldn’t feel Hannibal’s eyes on his face as he peeled bloody bandages away from the gash. _Doesn’t look right._ He wondered how Hannibal had been managing to change his bandages and clean the wound over the past half-week or so, in motels as they crossed the Midwest. He never really paid attention to how Hannibal was doing it. Usually Will locked himself in the bathrooms. 

He wadded up the bandages and threw them onto the pile. Grabbed a small piece of cloth and disinfectant, pausing to eye the wound before he cleaned it. _It should have healed a lot more by now._

Microscopic twitches in the muscles of his shoulder each time Will dabbed at it with a soaked cloth. Hannibal closed his eyes as Will worked. Between stitches, flesh rubbed against flesh, not quite binding together. Discoloration discernable only when he squinted and looked close. Will frowned. Took two fingers, placed them an inch or two underneath the cut, where Hannibal’s skin was red and raw, and pressed in.

“Does that hurt?”

“Yes.”

Will nodded, biting down on his lip. “It might be infected.”

Hannibal sighed. “I suspected as much.”

Will, still frowning, thinking, continued to clean, much more gently. 

“I’ll require antibiotics.” Hannibal spoke, eyes out the window but looking somewhere else. “We’re also going to run out of food soon. There wasn’t much here to begin with.” He paused. “And clothes. We’ll need clothes.”

Will stopped dabbing. He tucked the cotton ball into the palm of his hand, grasping it in a loose fist. He looked at Hannibal’s face. It was tired and worn, dark and puffy under the eyes, lips cracked, flecked with tiny healing scrapes. The reds of the bruise on his chest and neck faded and gave way to ugly shades of yellow. Again, it was the first time since they arrived that he had looked at Hannibal for more than about fifteen seconds. The something in his chest tightened a bit more.

“So.” Will swallowed. “What’s our plan?”

Hannibal turned towards Will. They made eye contact for only a moment before Will turned to face the carpet.

“There’s a small town west of here. Very small. About a half an hours drive. I’d say it’s relatively safe for us, but as I am at large, and not you, I think it best if you make the trip. There’s another town of sorts, an hour and a half east. Bigger, more shops. It’s a glorified truck stop, really, with a few hotels and-”

“No, I mean…” Will put his hands atop his thighs and pressed his fingers into his kneecaps. “What do we do, from here?”

Hannibal was silent. Will reiterated.

“What’s our _plan_?”

He turned to look at Hannibal and wished he hadn’t. Hannibal’s confused expression fell, slowly, melted into a kind of surprised sadness. Subtle, but Will could see it, guarded behind his eyes.

“This, Will.” He looked around at the room, then back at Will. Quiet. “ _This_ is our plan.”

He didn’t know what he wanted Hannibal to say, but it wasn’t that. A wave of understanding crashed over Will. He knew, and he _knew_ that he knew, that this was plan. He just couldn’t quite grasp that there was no ‘after,’ no ‘next.’ This was the after and the next and the finally. He was chin deep in Hannibal’s endgame, and soon the water would rise to cover his head and drown him, and that would be that. 

Will stood, ears ringing. Mind trailing seconds behind his body. He left Hannibal to finish patching himself up.

The couch felt colder than it had on previous nights. Twisting around hurt his ribs less, a good sign, but alleviation eluded him, as his back twinged and began to ache. He could not hear the ticking tonight over the rushing in his ears. This was it. He closed his eyes. This, here, the rest of his life. _Stop thinking._ Desperately wished for sleep to take him. _The rest of my life?_ He shifted again, as if maybe turning onto his left side just once more would silence the static behind his forehead. His back punished him for this.

Francis Dolarhyde opened the front door of the cabin, whole and intact. He paused to look at Will, then walked, thumping steps, towards the bedroom. Will could not move, helpless to do anything, skin on his back tugging against the glue, spine cracking as though it were about to break. The sounds of a struggle down the hall, a scream, frantic against his eardrums. Dolarhyde, mouth smeared in crimson, now at the foot of the couch. His throat and stomach gushed, blood pouring onto the floor. Pale face, milky eyes turned upward. He stood for a moment, then left, leathery wings trailing gracefully behind him.

Will shot up, back cracking, eyes wet. Ears straining against the night. He was halfway stood when he heard, from the bedroom, the flicking of a light switch, a few footsteps, the springs of an old mattress. Will’s breathing slowed. He laid back down.

He woke in the early morning to the sounds of Hannibal vomiting. He did not hesitate even for a moment when he walked to the bathroom and opened the door. Hannibal sat on the edge of the bathtub, elbows resting on knees, bent over the toilet.

“Are you alright?”

Hannibal nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

In the kitchen, Will filled a glass with water and began to rummage around in the cabinets, settling on a small box of instant oatmeal. He heated up water in the microwave. The silence of the cabin interrupted every few moments by Hannibal in the bathroom. Every time, Will flinched, stomach tightening. Hannibal emerged from the hallway, walking slowly, squinting into the morning light that flooded the small living area and kitchen. Will intercepted him, walking over, grasping his shoulder and pressing a palm to his forehead.

“You have a fever.”

Hannibal nodded. Coughed.

“Sit.”

Hannibal walked over and collapsed onto the couch, a quiet and indignant moan, head tilted back towards the ceiling. Dramatic, but still, clearly in a very real amount of discomfort. Will brought over the oatmeal and water. Set them down on the coffee table in front of the couch. Covered Hannibal with a blanket. “Eat.” Hannibal ate. Will didn’t. 

Hannibal spent this day the same as he had been spending the past few, intermittently asleep. He woke up to use the bathroom, and, one or twice, to eat. Will monitored his fever. Gave him a book to read before heading into town, a list of suitable antibiotics and a wad of cash left by the owners.

That night, Will curled up again on his uncomfortable couch. Closed his eyes, thought for a minute, and stood.

Pillow in one hand, complacent defeat clenched in the other, he walked to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Stared at Hannibal, who lay asleep on the left half of the bed. The right half, beside him, empty, with covers folded back so that a person may easily lie down. Will was too tired to be annoyed at Hannibal’s smug prediction of the inevitable. He walked over, lay down and pulled the cover to his shoulders. Hannibal was asleep, but Will knew that he knew he was there. His slow exhales took on a contented hiss.

Will was deep asleep seconds after he closed his eyes.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Will had his usual breakfast of whiskey that morning. Two fingers poured on the back of his tongue in one slow movement. He focused on the warmth in his throat, spreading throughout his chest. Hannibal sat across the table, absently looking out the living room window, poking at his dish. Poached egg, sautéed chanterelles, toasted hazelnuts, blackberries. The smell made Will want to vomit. Though, so did the bright light, and the noise of Hannibal’s dish being placed lightly in the sink. He waited until he heard the click of Hannibal closing the bedroom door to pour himself another two fingers. That usually helped with the hangovers, especially the brutal ones.

Will dressed in the bedroom, staring at the corner, back to Hannibal. Tried to pretend he couldn’t feel him watching.

Bracing himself against the cold that had crept upon the mountains overnight, Will trudged to the shed behind the cabin. Ax propped up on the side. He grasped it, turned, and surveyed the large pile of logs he had already split. Weeks of work. Still, if this winter was going to be as rough as Hannibal predicted, they’d need a lot more. He got to work, mind zeroing in on the crack he felt, the ripple in his limbs, when a log split. White knuckled grasp. His muscles ached from the hangover. He ignored them. Didn’t want to think about it.

The moment he arrived back at the cabin with their first months worth of groceries and no news of his or Hannibal’s death, Will started drinking. He didn’t stop. The near catatonic dissociation of the first few weeks at the cabin had melted away and became replaced by conflict and confusion so overwhelming that Will could barely function. He’d find himself crying, now and then, seemingly out of nowhere. An hour later he’d be folding Hannibal’s laundry, or bringing him tea, or reading with him in the sun soaked living room in cozy silence. Sometimes, without warning, a deep and visceral anger would burn through his limbs and he’d trek into the woods to be alone, fearing he might _do_ something. Days would go by where nothing was wrong, but the mood swings always came, sooner or later. It might have been a very literal cabin fever, but Hannibal seemed perfectly fine, and Will hated him for that. He began to miss his catatonic days, when he’d sit, for hours, staring at nothing and thinking of nothing. So he started to induce them with whiskey. Existing was easier that way.

Hannibal, naturally, disapproved. But weeks passed, and as they had yet to hear news about themselves, Will did the shopping, so Will controlled how much alcohol was brought back. He tried to justify it by buying Hannibal a bottle of wine for every bottle of whiskey he bought himself. The wine cabinet filled quickly.

“How’s the weather?” Hannibal asked from the couch, just as Will had stepped onto the threshold.

“Pretty damn cold, actually.” Will shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door. “Not that bad, really, just feels that way after how warm last week was.”

“Hm.” Hannibal’s mumbled response, eyes already turned back to the sketchbook in his lap. His fingers twitched slightly as he lifted his pencil.

Will stood in the doorway, eyes on twitching fingers, wondering if he should say something about it. Before he could settle on any conclusion, Hannibal took the words from him.

“Do you want to talk about last night?”

Will closed his eyes and sighed. “Not particularly.”

Late yesterday afternoon Will had read something in a book that reminded him of Walter and in an attempt to evade the oncoming breakdown, drank half a bottle of whiskey in 20 minutes. Hannibal had to clean the vomit from the bathroom sink and floor, and from Will’s hair. Pick up the broken glass. Physically carry Will to bed. Will woke in the morning to a glass of water and two aspirin on his bedside table. He stared at them, head on his pillow, while Hannibal cooked breakfast. Wishing the bed would swallow him whole.

Hannibal, sincere, nodded. “Well then, we don’t have to.”

Will frowned. _Yes, we do._ Remembering how he took the bottle by the stem and smashed it over the counter, holding the jagged end up to Hannibal, saying he could kill him right then and there. Hannibal’s eyes as he said it.

But he didn’t want to talk, so he accepted Hannibal’s response, nodding as well.

He watched Hannibal sketch for a moment. The quick light strokes of the pencil. Then one forceful movement, breaking the tip, before it fell to the page and rolled off. Hannibal’s hand, suddenly numb and still, rested against the sketchbook, fingers bent awkwardly. He closed his eyes, hung his head, breathed slowly. Will couldn’t watch. He walked to the bathroom, hoping that a bit of water would wash the sour taste from his mouth. 

They never spoke of Hannibal’s nerve damage.

That night, bogged down by the guilt that had been following him around all day, threatening to boil over into something more sinister, Will cracked open a new bottle. No intentions to get drunk. Just enough so that he could feel _less_. Hannibal was outside, sketching. Will drank what he could in the few minutes of solitude.

Hannibal, wrist almost healed but not quite, needed help carrying the logs for the fire inside. Will fumbled slightly while taking them out of Hannibal’s arms. Cursed himself silently. Hannibal watched him intently as he kneeled in front of the fireplace, a worried look over his face when Will stood and grasped the mantle for support.

“Will.”

“What.” He spat, jumping quickly to hostility. Anticipating.

“Are you drunk?”

Will turned to face Hannibal, who stood rigid, ready.

“Why do you care?” The words felt petty but he said them all the same.

“How much have you had to drink?” Hannibal took a step closer to Will, lowering his head, eyes darting back and forth between Will and his hand that grasped the mantle, steadying him.

Childish and spiteful. “Shut up, Hannibal.”

Hannibal pursed his lips together. He swallowed his words and the concern in his eyes slipped away. Resigned. “Alright.” Held up his hands in mock-defeat. “I’m sorry.” Again. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” A twinge of annoyance, and something else unnamed, in Will’s throat. “Don’t - ” He huffed, angrily, “ - why are _you_ apologizing?”

Hannibal examined Will’s face and, tentatively, took another small step forward. “It doesn’t seem like a subject you’re comfortable discussing. I don’t want to push you.”

“I threatened to kill you last night. I think that gives you a pass to push a subject.”

A brief silence, then frank words. “Are you going to try to kill me, Will?”

Will rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “No.” He let go of the mantle, wavering slightly, “I was drunk.” Walking to the kitchen on unsteady feet. Hannibal followed.

“As you so often are.” Hannibal’s comment made Will’s throat feel small. An uncomfortable tension tugged at his limbs. Bent forward, hands on the edge of the kitchen sink, staring into their front yard. Patches of dirt and grass visible in the darkness. Cloudless midnight sky unusually bright, enough to fall through the branches and land on the earth. He said nothing. He knew he had nothing to say. Hannibal stood behind him. Will waited – wanted – for Hannibal to crack. To snap to rage. Yell. Demean. Berate. Anything.

Instead, “Let me help you, Will.”

Will’s face crumpled into confused anger. “What?”

“I want to help you cope with whatever it is you’re trying to avoid by drinking, if you’ll let me.” Hannibal took a step closer to Will. Will turned around, leaned against the sink, face to face with Hannibal. His eyes soft, earnest. Will hated it. Hannibal stepped forward again, closer now. Will’s heartbeat quickened, and then Hannibal’s hand was on the side of his neck, warm, thumb against his jaw. His own face went slack.

“I’m worried about you, Will.”

The anger returned as quickly as it had left. “Don’t - ” Will reached up, and with the back of his hand, shoved Hannibal’s away. Whisper. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

He wanted, more than anything in the world, to unsee Hannibal’s expression as his hand dropped to his side. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at it. Felt a wet hotness behind his eyelids. Didn’t open them again until Hannibal left the kitchen and went to bed. No more words between them.

Will sat down on the bed, slowly, so as to not disturb Hannibal. He was on the edge of sleep, not conscious but not quite gone – Will could tell. He tugged his shirt off over his head and tossed it to a hamper in the corner. It landed on the ground. He lay down as gingerly as he had sat, blanket up to his midsection, head on the pillow facing the bathroom, away from Hannibal. His entire body stiff. 

Hannibal usually said goodnight. Will drifted off that night with silence, his only company a deep and swarming guilt.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Sure. I did this for a few of my friends in college.”

“And how did that turn out?”

Will smiled. “Not well.” He lifted a section of Hannibal’s hair away from his head, held between two fingers, and clipped at it with the small pair of scissors. “You shouldn’t really trust me with this.”

Hannibal turned, eyebrows raised, looked up at Will. Will smiled again.

“It’ll be fine. I’m not _that_ bad. Sit still.”

He turned to face forward, shifted slightly. Will placed one hand on his shoulder, moved a bit of hair around with the other, far too pleased with Hannibal’s nervousness.

“Not too short.”

“Really?” Will over-exaggerated his words, amusing himself. “I like you better with it a bit more short.”

He could almost feel, in his hand and through Hannibal’s shoulder, the cogs of his brain slowly turning. He held the scissors open and steady.

Hannibal sighed. “Alright, then.”

Will, recently, had been making more of an effort. Days after their fight, Hannibal’s rejected expression seared into his mind, he poured the rest of his whiskey down the kitchen sink in the early morning. Hannibal awoke to find empty bottles and a sober Will. He cooked breakfast, and they both ate, together, Hannibal hiding a slight smile behind his mug of coffee as he drank. Will slowly gained back the weight he hadn’t realized he’d lost, gaunt and dreadful face disappearing. Healthier, now. Present.

There were still days when he struggled. They were frequent, and difficult, but he dealt with them as they came. Differently each time. He’d hike into the woods. Whittle small wooden lures. Read. Cry. Sleep. Work on the car. If he needed to, he’d drink, but always wine, and always with Hannibal. They’d talk through his feelings on these days, only now and then, Hannibal always helpfully offering, _“Well I **am** a psychiatrist.”_ Usually though, they would spend the day in silence, in each others company, Hannibal giving Will space to breathe and sift and adapt. Will appreciated him all the much more for it.

“I’m going to have to buy us more clothes soon.” Will, voice quiet as he focused, letting a section of hair fall back onto Hannibal’s head. _Not bad._ Picked up another section. It had been getting progressively colder. Soon it would snow. They’d been dressing warmer and warmer, but the cabin was small and heated only by a wood-burning furnace. “I think I’ll go later tonight. But I’ve got to take the car in first, I don’t want it breaking down on the way.”

Hannibal huffed. “Please, Will, no more plaid.”

“What about tasteful plaid?”

“Your definition of tasteful plaid and mine could not be farther from each other.”

Will smiled to himself. “Ok. I’ll try harder.” Though, admittedly, he had slowly come to like the way Hannibal looked in his own kind of clothes. Cable knit sweaters. Plaid button downs. He gave Hannibal’s hair a few light shakes between his fingers, loose strands falling onto the towel on the floor, his shoulders. “Done.” Hannibal stood so quickly he knocked into Will’s hands with his shoulder. Strode down the hall. Thirty or so seconds of nothing, and then, from the bathroom, 

“Alright. I like it.”

The rattling came from underneath the front end of the car. Will could hear it, every time, if he strained his ears, especially when he accelerated. Louder was the clanking noise from around the right front wheel every time he made a turn. It made him nervous each time he heard it, especially now, turning onto the dirt road, half a mile down their grass driveway. His shoulders rigid when he made another turn onto a small paved single lane country road, thinking of how terrible it would be to break down right then and there. He left later than he would have liked, squinting against the setting sun. Irritated at himself for not taking it in sooner. Thankfully the mechanic was close, a small outpost about halfway between the cabin and the town. Will hoped there wouldn’t be cameras. But the fear of the car breaking down, effectively stranding them, trumped the fear that the top of his head might be captured by a low-resolution black and white garage camera. _Maybe I should have brought a hat._ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He always wore a hat when he shopped.

Isaac’s was, essentially, a reconstructed gas station and garage. There was one truck, parked in the back. Car clanking as Will turned into the parking lot. Three of the four gas pumps were rusted over, one was missing several pieces. Paint peeled off the large sign, the apostrophe completely gone, and the “S” halfway. Someone had undoubtedly meticulously hand painted that sign decades ago, and hung it prominently and proudly over the garage, where it had stayed ever since. Will found it endearing.

As he pulled up to the door and got out of his car, the man himself opened the door of the once-convenience store building of the gas station and stepped outside.

“Hey there.”

“Hi.”

Will walked towards the man, who met him halfway with an overly enthusiastic handshake.

“Isaac.”

“Michael.”

“Nice to meet you, Michael. How can I help you?”

Will turned towards the car and gestured to it, despite it being the only car there. “It’s making a sort of metallic rattling. Front end, under the car. And, uh, this sort of… clanking,” Will scratched at the back of his neck. He felt, strangely, a bit embarrassed, especially having tried to investigate and fix the problem himself a day before. He knew motors, so to an extent he could fix whatever problems it had. But it was boats he knew, not cars. “Like something is hitting against something else. Best way I can think to describe it is a gear that’s off track.”

“Sounds like an issue with your axle, or maybe your suspension.” Isaac tilted his head to look past Will at the car. “I’ll take a look at it for you.” He held out his hand. It took Will a moment to realize he had to give him the keys.

“You wanna go ahead and have a seat right in there,” Isaac pointed, closed fist and a thumb, behind him towards the converted convenience store. “Little waiting area right in front. I’ll likely be just about 15 minutes.”

Will nodded. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Michael.”

Yellowing floor tile and dirty panel lights. A wave of thick heat from an overhead vent hit him as he walked in the door, and Will realized just how cold it actually was outside. Immediately he looked around, scanning the ceiling. No cameras. _Good._ Rows of old metallic shelving all fully stocked with motor oil, washer fluid, air freshener, jumper cables. More than half the shelves were covered in a thin dusty film. Will sat in one of the three faded green chairs next to the door, pointed at an old TV set that hung over the register.

An attractive young blonde woman, blurry against a green screen, talked about the incoming snowstorm, a hissing in the audio, comically cartoonish clouds and snowflakes flashing behind her, predictions of temperature and wind chill for the next week. Will stared intently at the screen. He never really liked TV, but not having seen any sort of screen at all in a long time made him strangely drawn to it. The camera cut from the blonde woman to another, more attractive blonde woman, just as young if not younger than the first. A wealthier old man two counties over had passed away and used some of his estate money to buy a new fire truck for their station. Footage of a food drive at an elementary school, children walking in a haphazard line, through the legs of older women, arms laden with cans and boxes.

“St Joseph Church is hosting their annual Winter Swap Sale two weeks early this year due to recently planned renovations,” folding tables and boxes filled with clothes in an old gymnasium, “Stock up on coats, boots, and hats, and make sure to bring any summer clothes you’d like to donate.” A young pastor by a door, shakily shot from far away, chatting and smiling with an elderly couple. It would likely be cheap, and safer than going to a retail store, but Will wondered how Hannibal would feel wearing second-hand winter coats from a church yard sale. Probably not good.

“Turning now to national news,” the blonde woman’s co-host, a slightly older but equally good-looking brunette, “Following up on last week’s breaking story, the FBI has finally released a statement about escaped convict and serial killer, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and missing retired agent Will Graham.”

Will’s whole body went cold.

His face, Hannibal’s face, Dolarhyde’s face, side by side, covering the screen.

“After murdering Francis Dolarhyde, the killer known as The Tooth Fairy, Dr. Lecter and former agent Graham fell to their deaths, off the cliff of the seaside home where Lecter had taken Graham after he abducted him.”

Spine rigid. Straight up in his chair. He looked around wildly. Nobody inside, nobody outside. Chair grating against tile as he stood.

“It is unclear at this point whether or not Lecter intended to kill himself as well as Graham, and-”

Heart beating into his throat. Blood rushing behind his ears. Shots of the patio, photographers crouched around Dolarhyde, the patch of blood on the edge of the cliff. His face, again. Will tore his eyes away from the TV and scanned wildly around the store. Outside, he heard the mechanical hum of a garage door opening.

There. The counter by the register, a small remote. Will ran the 5 steps and snatched it, hands shaking, fumbling with the power button. The TV went black. A static and high pitched quiet hum as it died. Remote into his pocket. He sat back down, in the chair. _Breathe._ He balled shaking fingers into tight fists. _Calm down._

A rush of cold air hit his side and numbed him further. Isaac stepped inside, boots heavy. Will, leaning back in the chair, legs crossed, looked up at him with bored, expectant eyes.

“It’s your suspension.” Isaac sniffed. His voice louder and more grating than before. “Brushings have worn out, it’s not uncommon in some older cars, especially ones with metal brushings instead of rubber.”

Will nodded. “What’ll it take to fix?” Voice low. Casual.

“Well,” A deep sigh, exaggerated shoulders. “I’ll replace ‘em for you, gotta do that. Thing is the way these things are built, I can’t just do the brushings. I’ve gotta do the control arm as well – see, they all work together.” Isaac tried to illustrate this with unhelpful, awkward hand gestures, putting a fist into his other palm and wrapping his fingers around it. “I’ve got the parts. It’ll cost you a couple hundred, though it depends on how long the whole thing takes.”

Will was listening but not processing. He focused solely on his demeanor. The tone of his voice. The calmness on his face. “How long do you think that’ll be?”

Isaac put on a sympathetic cringe. “Couple hours, most likely. You ain’t got any way to go somewhere else, huh?” Will shook his head. “You can wait in here, then, I’ll try not to take too long, but I don’t want to rush things.”

“That’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Will needed to leave. Now. Do _something._

“Sorry ‘bout the TV, it does whatever it wants. Need a new one.” Will relaxed, only slightly. He had been wondering how to divert Isaac from offering him the television.

“I can, uhh…” he looked around, hands on his hips, “here…” he walked behind the counter. Slid a piece of paper forward. “That’s the code to the coffee machine in the back corner over there,” he pointed. “And, here.”

He ducked underneath the counter and emerged with a small stack of magazines and newspapers in his blackened hands. “Let’s see, we got People,” tossed it on the counter. “National Geographic,” counter. “Wall Street Journal,” counter. “Uh-”

He stopped. Paper in hand, hovering over the pile he had already tossed down. Will clenched his jaw. Isaac glanced up at Will. Back down at the paper. “Uh,” voice different. He tossed it onto the pile. “New York Post, and…” the whole pile fell with a _thwump,_ onto the counter. “...and the rest of ‘em. Pick what you like.”

Isaac strode out from behind the counter and out the front door far too quickly, casting a sideways glance at Will as crossed the threshold.

Will watched him disappear into the garage before he leapt from his chair, again jogging the 5 or so steps to the counter. Shoved the top few magazines aside, he grabbed the paper with tingling fingers. Top of the page. Huge, bold letters.

**HANNIBAL LECTER AND CAPTIVE DECLARED DEAD BY FBI.**

Underneath,

**REMEMBERING WILL GRAHAM.**

A picture of his face. Hannibal’s mugshot. Side by side. It took up the entire page. 

Will’s mouth went dry. His brain shut down.

Something else took over.

He let the door slam closed behind him, cold air in his face, long and purposeful strides, quick, towards the garage. The door was still open. His car suspended in the air on the lift. He stepped around tool carts. Kept his steps quiet on the oil stained cement. Pulse drumming on his eardrums. There was a white door at the back of the garage, inches open, a light on behind it. Will got to it and pushed it open forcefully with his palm. It hit the wall with a bang. A small office. One desk against the wall, one rolling chair. Walls covered with schedules and calendars and pictures. Harsh fluorescent lighting.

Isaac spun around. Phone receiver in one hand, the other hovering over the keypad. He looked at Will and froze. The horror in his eyes. Pure. Unadulterated.

“W-wait-”

Will lunged forward. Isaac’s head hit the wall behind him with a sickening crack. He reached out as they fell, hand grasping at the desk. Papers flying. Disoriented. Will’s hands around Isaac’s throat, then Isaac’s around Will’s wrists, then Will’s knuckles against Isaac’s face. Again, again, again. Blood pooled in his nostrils. Choking. Knee pressing into abdomen. Ribs cracked under Will. Knuckles cracked beneath his skin every time they connected with crumpling bone. Again and again. Something sliced at Will’s forearm, his side. Scissors. With one hand Will pried them from Isaac’s fingers, the other hand on his face, pressing his head into the floor.

It took less force than Will expected to pierce the side of his throat. Pushing the blades in up to the handles. Isaac stopped fighting back. Eyes flew open. Violently trembling hands grasped at the side of his neck. Will pulled the scissors out. Blood pumped, steadily, heavily, onto the floor.

He stopped, watching Isaac panic, no longer trying to fight. He knew he had won. But he lifted the scissors again and plunged them, straight down, through the front of Isaac’s neck.

Then he forced them open.

He watched, manic, as Isaac’s eyes shifted in and out of focus, until the bright and panicked sheen behind them vanished completely.

Frenzied panting slowed. Chest heaving. Will came back into himself with a swift and suffocating rush.

_Oh god._

He stood, knees weak, lightheaded. _Oh my god._ Stood at Isaac’s feet. Blood, still pumping, pooled around him. Under his head, over his face, through his clothes. Will took a shaky step backwards, looked down at his own clothes. Scarlet seeped through the sleeve and shirt where he had been cut. The rest, smeared on his hands. Not his.

He drove Isaac’s truck back to the cabin. Fizzy blood coursing in his arms. Sound of the road and the wind muted by it. Flipped the headlights off as he pulled up to the cabin.

Hannibal stood in the doorway, a tall black figure, silhouetted by the light behind him. Will stepped out of the truck, sturdy ground under his feet feeling as if it would give way any second. He stared at it. Fizzing in his ears faded away, replaced by Hannibal’s footsteps coming rapidly towards him, hands gripping his shoulders.

“Will.”

He looked up, mechanical. Hannibal, soft, calm.

“Show me.”

Hannibal kept his hand on Will’s shoulder for the length of the drive back to Isaac’s. Glanced at him, often. Will stared at nothing, straight ahead, eyes half closed. Mind blurs of gray. He didn’t realize they’d arrived until Hannibal shook his shoulder gently.

“Where?”

Will lifted his hand, arm heavy, pointed to the garage. “Back office.” Words almost slurred.

“Cameras?”

“No.”

Hannibal shut the car door as he exited and the sound made Will jump.

Will closed his eyes and waited in the car.

_Hannibal emerged in the doorway only 2 minutes later. He tilted his head towards the inside of the house, beckoning Will inside. Will sat, seatbelt still on, staring forward and refusing to move. Hannibal, after a minute, realized, and walked back to the car. He sat down gingerly, holding his broken wrist against his chest._

_“Why.” Angry._

_Hannibal blinked. “Why what?”_

_“They didn’t… they didn’t DO anything to us, they…” He trailed off. Rubbed his hands over his face._

_“Will,” Hannibal began, after a long pause, “Killing someone doesn’t always have to be a grand or transformative act. Sometimes it’s simply necessary. That doesn’t, however, make it any less powerful. You’ll come across that conclusion yourself someday.”_

_“No.” Will, barely letting Hannibal finish. “No, I won’t. You’re not… you can’t convince me to-”_

_“I’m not trying to convince you to do anything. Your actions, Will, and the way you feel about them, are entirely your own.”_

_Will scowled. “That’s funny.”_

Will flinched as the truck shook with the weight of something being put in the bed.

“Can you drive?” Hannibal, at the window. Will turned his head slowly, still not quite processing. “Will, I need to know if you can drive this truck back. I’m going to take our car.”

Will nodded.

“Will. Please.” The edge of urgency pulling him gently towards reality. “Can you focus enough to drive safely?”

Another nod. “Yes.” His words unassuring.

The slices on his forearm and side singed when he twisted his arm to buckle himself into the driver’s seat. More blood soaked through. They seared, as he drove, suddenly terrible, as if they hadn’t been there moments ago. A burning radiated from them, down through his fingers, up through his arm and shoulder. The one on his side spread through his torso, up through his chest, neck, his head. By the time he arrived at the cabin his whole self was consumed with an overwhelming hotness. He could hardly catch his breath. Hannibal caught him as he nearly fell out of the truck, arm around his waist, helping him to the door.

Will collapsed onto the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Tried to focus on his breathing, which grew steadily more rapid. Shuddering with every breath.

“Tell me what happened.” Words loud. Hannibal’s face, a consistent, calm stare. Stoic. Will studied it a moment. He felt lighter. He gave in.

Will fell into him. Leaned over, head tucked into his shoulder, grasping blindly at his forearm. Hannibal’s arm around Will, pulling him in, cheek against forehead. Will felt his breath on his hair. Pressed his face harder into the crook of his neck, eyes shut, grip tightening around Hannibal’s arm. Hannibal’s chest rose and fell slowly, Will’s own breathing slowed to match. Behind closed eyes, against Hannibal’s collarbone, he saw the blood underneath the mechanic, growing larger, pooling out from him. Liquid life, everything Isaac had ever done or seen or felt, seeping from his body, killing him as it left. The hotness in Will’s body faded to a warmth. Almost pleasant. Dolarhyde couldn’t stop Will from slicing into him with Hannibal’s teeth in his throat. Warmth into a light tingling. Pleasanter still. Hannibal’s breathing became his own. They were back on the cliff. Bloody face against Hannibal’s neck and the night was beautiful.

Will shifted on the couch. Calm now. Warm and comfortable and familiar. Natural. Hannibal’s steady heartbeat against his scarred cheek. For the second time in his life, Will Graham allowed himself to revel.

Breakfast the next morning was, undoubtedly, the best thing he’d ever tasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit out there. Length and pacing wise it's very different. Not 100% happy with this but I can't hold onto it forever trying to make it perfect. Next one will be a bit better - and a bit gayer ;) - I promise.


	3. Levee

Will could tell Hannibal was cooking the moment his car rounded the bend in their half-mile grassy driveway. The cabin, engulfed in a sea of towering evergreens, came into view, small clouds of steam escaping from the cracked window of the kitchen. He parked next to the truck, covered in a tarp. The cold nipped at his eyelids when he exited the car. He smelled… something. Strong, even from outside the cabin. Wondered what it might be.

Hannibal’s meals since they found the cabin were always, without fail, masterpieces. The scarcity of higher-end foods did nothing to sway him. He always found some way to take what they had and make do. Will loved it. It was quite the improvement - far from the simple and dull meals he used to make for himself. Occasionally, though, he missed the simplicity those meals carried with them. Butter on slightly burnt toast on a cold morning, prepared sleepily at dawn. A cup of scalding, over-brewed tea in a metal thermos for fishing on the lake. They slowed things down when everything else moved too fast.

On days that felt like too much, Will would find Hannibal in the kitchen, preparing meals like that. Scrambled eggs and toast. Peanut butter and jelly. Eaten together in a comforting silence.

Two days. Two days and he was just now starting to slip away, from the cabin, from Hannibal, and into his mind. Killing hadn’t bothered him. He realized it hadn’t, and that fact, in and of itself, did. The shame and the terror absent from the aftermath, confusion slipped in, filling the space they used to occupy. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way he felt in Hannibal’s arms, blood soaking through his shirt, staining Hannibal’s. He knew how he felt. What he felt. He wanted to pretend he didn’t.

He opened the front door, entered the cabin, and the smell of the food washed over him. He put down the three large bags of winter clothes he had gotten at the church sale in town. Shook the snow off his boots. Shrugged off his coat.

“Smells good.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal’s back faced Will. He bent over the stove at an awkward angle. Thick steam poured upwards, curled around his head. “I think so too.”

Will ran a hand through his hair, shook it a bit. It had only just begun to snow. “No posters or anything in town.” He looked around absentmindedly. Decided on the old, ugly orange armchair, sat down, settled in. He was used to Hannibal not responding whenever he cooked. “Although it’s only been two days, and he didn’t have a family. Doubt anyone’s noticed yet.” He glanced over at Hannibal, who now stood next to the sink, whisking something in a small glass bowl.

“Good news, then.” He too glanced at Will. A small, friendly smile. He walked to the stove and poured the contents of the bowl into the large simmering pot. Will closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply. Exhaled. Cracked his neck. Frowned. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Not particularly, no.” Hannibal again bent over the stove.

“I’m going to start a fire.” Will leaned forward, hands on his knees. He was interrupted before he could stand.

“Here, this will warm you.” Hannibal’s arm extended, ending in a small silver spoon. Will walked over. “Careful, it’s hot.” He opened his mouth. Spoon against teeth. He felt the warmth deep in his chest, down his throat.

“Tomato soup?” Will asked, face scrunched in perplexion.

A quiet laugh on a soft breath. “Yes.” Hannibal placed the spoon cautiously in the sink. “With boiled potatoes and parsley.”

“Ah.” Will’s eyebrows raised. Mild amusement. “You’re boiling today.” He discovered Hannibal’s disdain of boiling potatoes the last time he had requested a meal like this, on a similar day – when everything was too much and the air felt as heavy outside as it did inside. 

Hannibal’s face matched Will’s amusement. He took the words from Will’s head and released them into the space between them. “It feels like one of those days.”

The acknowledgment of tension wiped the half smile off Will’s face. The familiar comfort of a simple meal was one thing. This was another. He hated acknowledgement on days when all he wanted was silence. On days like these, conversations were not meant to be held. Heavy and laden words tucked away behind sealed lips. Hannibal knew this. He knew there were times Will didn’t need or want to talk. He knew it today, but pressed anyway.

The warm humidity of the steam was suddenly sticky and uncomfortable. Contrasted with the mild chill he felt deep beneath his skin. Will needed to get out.

He felt the heat leave him as he stepped away from the kitchen. Stepping out of a bubble. He thought, momentarily, of staying. Lean against the wall and watch Hannibal work. But the twitching in his fingers told him he could not. He needed to do something to occupy himself. To take his mind off of the kitchen. Off the acknowledgment. Off the cabin. Off Hannibal. 

The wooden handle of the ax was frozen in his hand. Red, numb fingers wrapped around it. They were nowhere near where anyone could hear them, Will knew that, but still he felt a twinge of nervousness every time the crack of a splitting log rang through the early afternoon. As if at any moment everything around him would break into splintered fragments.

It had been long enough. According to the papers, they were dead. Pieces of them had been found. Hair. Blood. Shredded fabric. Small chunks of flesh embedded onto the rocks before the tide had washed their bodies away. Hannibal had taken him hostage. He had killed the Dragon to prove his superiority, then Will, the obsession who betrayed him, and himself, to avoid detainment – all according to the incredible and brave Frederick Chilton, whose picture was left out of the papers.

No one was looking for them. Of that Will was sure. It changed the world around him. The sky, shades of blue he had never seen. Discomforting.

The loud snap of the ax connecting. Wood splitting. Will snapped back into himself. Felt the paranoid twinge. It was a feeling he knew, back when they first happened upon the cabin, would be hard to shake. It still wrapped itself around Will’s mind, all this time later. Consumed him. Made the air thicker, harder to breathe. He embedded the ax into a log that did not split. Wrist and fingers jerked uncomfortably. Will stood up straight and drew a few slow breaths. Still could smell the soup.

He wondered if Hannibal ever cooked like this for Bedelia. Frowned. An ugly thought.

Sitting at the small table, minutes later, he thought he might ask. But he didn’t. They sat across from each other. Silent but for the clinking of silverware. It was a comfortable and common occurrence, not speaking. Today however, the silence hung over the table, between them, a thick, opaque fog. Will peered under it. Watched Hannibal’s hands as they placed the spoon softly on the table and picked up a fork.

“Will?” Distant. Shrouded in static.

“Yes?”

Hannibal’s voice was suddenly loud. “I asked what was troubling you.”

Will frowned. The fog disappeared. He wished it hadn’t. “You did?”

“You seem far away today. More than usual.” The psychiatrist voice was uncomfortable in his ears. “Where is your mind taking you?”

Will wished there was more room in his chest for his lungs. Like they couldn’t expand. He knew he couldn’t avoid talking now. Hannibal was pushing. Will pushed back.

“Lots of places.” Reluctant. “Italy. You and Bedelia. The others.”

“Others?”

“Yes, the others.” Will tried and failed to keep the bite from his words. “Margot. Randall Tier. Et cetera.” His eyes flicked up and met Hannibal’s before quickly darting away. They did not want to rest for too long on the resign in the doctor’s eyes. He waited for Hannibal to respond. He didn’t.

Will picked up a fork and stabbed at a small piece of a potato. Pulled out the fork. It sat, impaled, on the plate. Tiny curls of steam poured from the wounds. “Why?”

Hannibal repeated, slowly. “…why?”

“Yes.” Will again put down his fork. Mouth suddenly dry. “Why. Why me? Why am I sitting here, with you, right now, eating soup?”

“You enjoy this dish, I thought it would help with your mood-”

“That’s not - ” Will interrupted. Stopped himself. Bit down on closed lips with sharp teeth. “Why am I sitting here, and not Randall Tier?”

“Well, for one, you killed Randall Tier.”

“You know what I mean.”

Hannibal took a moment to pause and dab at the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. Folded his hands in his lap. “I don’t believe you are that insecure, Will, to compare yourself to former patients of mine and measure your worth by theirs.” The word ‘patients’ left an unpleasant taste in the air around Will. Bitter.

“I’m not… it’s. It’s just - ” Words tripping over words. “You won’t tell me why you chose me.”

“Chose you?”

Will swallowed nothing. “Yes.”

“Are you implying that the only reason you are here is because I picked you out of the bunch and groomed you?” Hannibal’s hands now resting on the table on either side of his meal.

Will closed his eyes. Brought his hands to his face. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Pressed his fingers to the side of his forehead.

“You are not so malleable, Will. Killing is not an idea that can be planted. It is a seed that exists in only some of us. I helped you water it.”

“So.” Will nodded. “I am the plant that survived the frost.” A statement, not a question.

“Stop thinking of this as a contest.” Hannibal’s voice had a sudden uninviting edge. “You did not ‘win,’ due to your perceived success or the imagined failure of others.” It rubbed against Will like sandpaper. “Had Randall Tier killed you that night, he would certainly not be sitting at this table with me.”

“So - ” Hands fell from face to table. “ – you _did_ choose me.”

Annoyance bogged down the pause and then the curt, reluctant syllable. “Yes.”

“All I’m asking is _why_.” Just above a whisper. Airy and pleading words. Honest.

Hannibal’s face and words cut through Will’s resolve like a dull blade. “Stop asking.” Voice slightly louder than usual. Only slightly. “We have had this conversation before, Will. I can’t tell you what you need to hear because I don’t know what it is.”

Will continued on as if Hannibal had not responded. “My emphatic ability?” His eyes darted around the room randomly. “Did I… stand out to you, when I killed Garret Jacob Hobbs? Or when-”

“That’s _**enough**_ , Will.” Hannibal’s tone sucked the air from Will’s lungs. The wooden chair scraping against the floor deafened him. Startled. Hannibal stood, chair behind him. “This is not a productive conversation. It can’t be when you are unwilling to hear anything I have to say.”

There were no words in Will’s throat. He stared, blankly, at Hannibal, whose narrowed eyes and lowered eyebrows bored into him. Frantically he searched for words. Found them, a whisper. “I... I’m not unwilling.”

“But you are.” Hannibal stood up straighter. Held his head higher, and in those motions alone, Will knew he was hurt. “You consider yourself unworthy despite my every attempt to convince you otherwise.” He stepped away from the table, turned away from Will, then towards him again. “I chose you, that I can concede to – but not in the way you seem to have convinced yourself of. And I will not tolerate being told that it was by chance or by my singular doing you find yourself here.” Hannibal’s eyes closed. He stood as if he were not breathing. To anyone but Will he likely appeared calm. Poised. But Will saw him wounded and seething. He turned away once more. Walked from the table.

“You are special, Will, and you do not believe it. It frustrates me. I can only show you in so many ways that I love you, and you doubt every one.”

He was out the front door, shut swiftly behind him, before the words impacted.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Will poured the now cold soup into a tupperware container. Snapped the lid in place. Stared blank faced out into the world, the window over the kitchen sink. Over-processing. Numb. Dissociating.

He hadn’t initially noticed that Hannibal took the car. The moment the door closed a loud ringing like rushing water poured into Will’s ears and crushed them. He sat, frozen. Bits of steam still curling into and out of his vision. His hand twitched. Snapped him into reality for only a second before the ringing consumed him again. Submerging him in water. Everything was muffled. Everything felt far away.

_I can only show you in so many ways that I love you._

Wandering mind settled on a conversation with Bedelia, worlds ago. That shattering moment of realization. Will knew she had, essentially, confirmed how Hannibal felt, a single solemn _'Yes.'_ Still, love? That was hard to quantify. Will knew Hannibal loved him. He didn’t know why he did not believe it until right now. It wasn’t denial. More of a lack of concrete confirmation. As if he needed evidence. Proof that the love was love and not obsession. Will closed his eyes. His breath was shaky. _Is there really a difference?_

And now the confirmation hung in the air in the space above the doormat, where the words spilled from Hannibal’s mouth before he could stop them. Will looked at the closed door, then his watch. Tried to remember how long ago Hannibal left, though he had no idea. 30 minutes? Two hours? Eyes covered underneath a palm. He turned to face the rest of the cabin. The atmosphere had changed. Everything was dimmer, softer. The time of year when the sun arrived later and left earlier every day. Or maybe his vision had grown dim. Will rested against the counter behind him. Drummed his fingers.

He hated moments like these. Brief periods of indecision and numbness. To go out after Hannibal, search for him. Or to wait. Trust that Hannibal would be careful. Will chewed his tongue as he thought. Indecisiveness meant a default to the latter – his mind’s unwillingness to choose was, essentially, choosing. Will poured himself a small glass of whiskey. Movements stiff. Got a blanket. Robotic. Started a fire. Not his own. Settled down into the ugly orange armchair. Stared at a charred spot on the back of the fireplace.

Will startled awake. A dream? A sound? He blinked the haze away and leaned forward in the chair, listening for something – anything. But save for the crackling log, he was met by silence. Hannibal’s absence was, in itself, an ominous presence.

His knees cracked when he stood. Rolled his neck from side to side. Arched and stretched his back. It was dark in the cabin. Night swallowed the world whole, and the warmth with it. He picked up his empty and now icy glass, brought it to the kitchen, cold seeping into the pads of his feet with every step. Through the window over the sink Will could see that it was snowing, now, much harder than it had been before. The small flurry of earlier now a thick and steady fall. Will closed his eyes.

He put on only his boots to go collect more firewood. The air did not bite as much as he expected when he swung open the door, trudged out. He blinked away snowflakes, hand over his brow, brushing it off his eyelashes. He kicked the snow around next to the pile of logs until he found a crumpled up tarp. Pulled it up, shook it off, accidentally shaking most of the snow onto himself. He didn’t think much of it. Ignored the stinging sensation as it melted against his skin, drew the warmth from him. Two logs tucked under one arm, a tarp thrown over the rest with the other. Will turned on his heel and, still blinking away the weather, walked back to the cabin.

Two shallow indentations in the blanket of snow, where the tires of the car had taken Hannibal away some hours ago. Will stared as he walked over them. Wondered if Hannibal was driving in the storm. Closed his eyes and hoped he wasn’t.

_I can only show you in so many ways that I love you._

Will frowned to himself. Shut the door behind him and kicked off his boots. Forced the words out of his head. He did not want to hear them.

_I love you._

Brows lowered. _Stop it._ He brought the logs to the fire and busied himself building it up again. Focus so intent he did not realize he was shivering in the cold until a small drop of frigid water from his hair rolled down the side of his face. He started towards the bedroom.

A towel from the small bathroom dabbed against dampened numb skin. An old t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. Still, cold. Will dug through the drawers of their clothes that Hannibal had folded. Found a warm, deep gray cardigan. Forgot that it wasn’t his. Remembered when he shrugged it on. It smelled of Hannibal. Instantly knew he should take it off. Didn’t.

Will wrapped the cardigan more tightly around himself. Arms folded in front of his chest, shoulders hunched inwards. He glanced around the dark room. Sliver of light fell across the nightstand. Will’s glasses atop Hannibal’s book.

He sat on the edge of the bed that they shared but never talked about. Dragged his palm across the blankets over his own indentation. It had hardly been a few hours and already the cabin was changed. An uncomfortable unfamiliarity. The cabin had been their home for some time, but what made home _home_ was not here. _He’s only been gone for a few hours._ He glanced out the window. The snow came down harder now, window framing more white than black. A few hours too long. The car never got fixed. It might have broken down. Hannibal alone and stranded in the storm. Will’s breath shaky in his lungs. He stood up. _You’re being paranoid._ Tried to shake himself free from the shroud. Hoped that just a bit of whiskey would lift the heaviness from his chest. Quiet the growing twinge of nervousness. 

He poured himself a moderately sized glass. Drank it in one swig, standing at the kitchen sink, open bottle still in hand. Then another. Knew he shouldn’t. But carried third glass, and the bottle, with him to the armchair. _I can only show you in so many ways that I love you._ Will frowned, took a small sip. _I love you._ No. He could not dwell on those words. Again picked a small charred spot on the back of the fireplace and fixed his vision to it. He needed to save them. Remember them. Another sip. Tried to ignore the twinge. His fingers twitched as they put down the glass. How long had it been? Too long, it felt. Will tried to keep his mind from going to the worst. He looked at his wrist, only just then remembering he had taken his watch off, and – 

The cabin lit. Flooded with a bright and artificial light. Will stood, spun around. Car headlights and the quiet crunching of snow.

He stood, frozen. Watched as the doorknob turned from the inside, and swung open. Hannibal stood on the threshold. Flecks of snow dusted his shoulders, dotted his hair. He too, froze. Will stared. He stared back.

“I had hoped you would be asleep.”

Will paid no attention to the sweeping relief Hannibal’s voice brought. “I was waiting for you.”

Hannibal stood, still unmoving, staring at Will. Soft eyes, Tense shoulders. Will’s lungs rattled as he inhaled. Felt his arms tense as well.

“That’s my cardigan.”

Fingers clutched the edges of the sleeve that fell around them. “It is.” Breathy.

Hannibal’s eyes dropped to the floor. He sat, took off his shoes, coat, gloves. Will watched, standing in front of the armchair. Silent. Hannibal began to walk towards the bedroom, intent on putting a close to the moment, the day. Seal it with wax and tuck it away. Again, the twinge in Will’s chest. Words with no thought before them.

“Hannibal.”

He stopped. Turned.

Inhale. “I’m sorry.” Warmth. There was something _right_ about the words.

Hannibal nodded once, spent a moment in thought. “You are not the one who should be apologizing, Will.”

Will closed his eyes. Frowned slightly. He had forgotten, in the moment, the security of Hannibal’s presence, that this apology would not be so cut-and-dry. He should have known this was not going to be an easy conversation. “Yes, I should.” He insisted. “I was… unreasonable, earlier. Too caught up in my own thoughts.”

“I know.” Hannibal’s voice was lower now. Lost the edge Will hadn’t noticed before. “I too was caught up in thought and still I spoke without thinking. My outburst was uncalled for.” He took a step closer. Shadows flicked across his cheek, the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry, Will.”

Will nodded. Bit down lightly on the tip of his tongue. “I forgive you.”

“And I, you.”

Silence. Will turned, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured another glass. Extended it in offering to Hannibal, who strode forward, and took it. Fingers against fingers. Hannibal leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, one arm slightly extended, palm rotating back and forth in front of the flames. Will stood in front of him. Heat seeping through the cardigan, deep into his side.

“Do you still wish to talk about what was bothering you earlier, or should we move on?” Earnest. Soft. Will watched him sip whiskey between words. “You’re still troubled, and I would like to help you, if I can.”

“I’m always troubled.” Will, unfocused eyes and a bitter smile. “I…” he paused. “I’m having trouble…processing.”

“What you did to the mechanic?”

“No. Well, yes.” Will drummed his fingers against the mantle. “There’s… this person who I used to be, and this person that I am. I don’t know where or how they fit together.” Licked his lips. “I liked killing him. I know I did. But I’ve spent my whole life in denial of that, and to enjoy it without the guilt? I can’t wrap my head around that. It’s, just… easier, sometimes… to blame that on you.”

“You cannot blame me for enjoying that experience.”

“I know.”

Hannibal sighed. “You attribute far too many of your choices and feelings to me, Will. _That_ is the root of my own aggravation. You’re here of your own accord. I want noting more than for you to realize that your decisions are yours and not mine, nor are they the subject of my manipulation. It frustrates me that you can’t see that.”

“I can.” Will, a whisper. “I do, I know. My choices are my own, I know that. I’m sorry.” He looked up. “Stop letting me blame you.”

Hannibal met his gaze with questioning eyes. Will continued.

“You’ve been very…” He thought. “Accommodating. For lack of a better word. Too accommodating.”

“Like you said, you’ve had trouble adjusting. I wanted to be a sense of emotional stability for you.”

“I don’t feel very emotionally stable when you let me walk all over you. If I offend you, or hurt you, I don’t want you to just take it for my sake. That’s not-” The word _love_ got caught in the back of Will’s throat, behind his teeth. It sat heavy on his tongue. “-that’s not ok. It’s unfair to you.”

“I appreciate that, Will.” Hannibal nodded slowly. “My intent was to assure you I was not attempting any kind of manipulation, and to be supportive of your emotions. Not to be a doormat.” He took another sip. “If you’d like, I could yell at you more.”

They both smiled, soft cashmere laughs, a warm orange glow.

Will had to bring it up before he could think too much about it and stop himself. 

“There’s something else.” Eyes fixed on flames. Heat thickening the air between them. He glanced up at Hannibal, now motionless. Knuckles tight against the drink. Will continued with a deep breath.

“You love me.” Not necessarily a question, but spoken like one. Will felt the ease sucked from Hannibal’s lungs.

A pause. He brought the drink up to his lips and took a tentative sip. Then, “…yes.”

Will nodded. Slow. Kept his eyes on Hannibal’s face who kept his own on the fire. “Why did you never tell me, before?”

Hannibal cleared his throat quietly. “I always assumed you knew.”

“I suppose I did know. I did. It’s just…” There were no ‘right words’ in this situation.”…hearing it out loud changes it.”

“I sincerely hope it doesn’t.” Hannibal would not look up. Face turned. Eyes averted. Voice low. Vulnerable. It was a rare and special occurrence. Something in Will’s chest and throat tightened.

“No, no…” Will’s voice dropped as well. “It’s a change, but not necessarily a bad one.” Waited for Hannibal to speak. He didn’t. “I couldn’t… quantify it before. It’s like, I knew but I didn’t comprehend. I couldn’t be sure. Now there’s an acknowledgment. It’s in the air between us now.”

“Still.” Hannibal swirled his drink around. “An acknowledgement such as this does usually change the dynamic between two people. I hope I have not made you uncomfortable, Will.” Swallowed. “I don’t want things to change.”

The quietness, the aversion. Hannibal stood in front of him, exposed. Lightness in Will’s fingertips, and his voice became a whisper. A small step forward. “They won’t.”

Hannibal nodded. Sipped. Swallowed. Put his empty glass on the mantle. “I’m glad to hear it.”

The crackling logs made louder by the silence that surrounded them. Both waited for the other to speak. Will knew they couldn’t just leave it at that. I love you, goodnight. Resume normalcy. Will wanted to break it. Shatter the quiet domesticity.

Without warning, his head swarmed with questions. He wanted everything out in the open, and Hannibal was vulnerable. Will took control.

“How long?”

Hannibal looked up, finally meeting Will’s gaze. Noticed Will’s voice had less of an edge. It was more confident. He seemed slightly more comfortable in his response. “Quite some time.”

“Are you physically attracted to me?” The question came, unfiltered. Will didn’t care.

Hannibal’s eyes flicked around Will’s face. Trying to read him. Will saw the frustration in Hannibal’s eyes when he realized he couldn’t. An uneasy breath.

“I am.”

Will’s ribs constricted his lungs. “I might have guessed. But I wasn’t as sure.” Tried to disguise the sudden and unrecognizable feeling that flooded his body, made his head buzz. He nodded slowly. Spoke even slower. “I… I can’t say if I feel the same.” 

This time Will averted his eyes. Something about Hannibal’s face, in that moment, was too much. He didn’t want to see it. 

“That’s quite alright. I don’t expect you to feel the same.” Hannibal, like Will, trying to mask something with calmly enunciated words. He spoke too soft. Enough to make Will’s chest feel even smaller. His head feel hot. He glanced down, saw that an overwhelming sadness had consumed Hannibal’s body. Looked up. 

“It’s not that… I don’t love you. I wouldn’t be here if…” A spoken stream of consciousness. Will let the words happen. Another small step forward. “I _do_ … love you, Hannibal.” Hannibal’s eyes shot up. Fixed on Will. Close. Made not even a small attempt to hide himself. Mouth ever so slightly agape.

“Just… in my own way.” Will nodded. “I’m still working that out.”

An overwhelming… something. Hannibal placed his hand on Will’s shoulder.

Will didn’t feel the need to search for what to do or say next. The only thing that mattered was Hannibal’s hand, light, on his shoulder. A warm familiarity seeped from it, into Will’s chest. The warmth traveled up into the side of his face. Hannibal moved his hand there. Thumb gliding across Will’s cheek. Gauging Will’s response. Will did not move. His eyes darted between Hannibal’s. 

Hannibal leaned closer. Slowly, examining Will’s face with intense eyes. Will felt his heart beating wildly against his ribs. Days passed. _Just happen._ Nothing did. Hannibal stopped, face too close. Will felt Hannibal’s unsteady breath.

“May I kiss you, Will?”

A nearly imperceptible nod.

Hannibal pressed his lips to Will’s and the world fell away.

His mouth was soft. Soft and unsure. An unexpectedly familiar fervor spread from his lips, into Will’s cheeks, his neck, his throat. He felt light. He stood still, eyes fluttered closed, content to be kissed, content in this moment and in this life they lived. And then contentment was not enough. He began to kiss back. Hannibal pressed his lips harder against Will’s. Slid his hand behind Will’s head, hair between fingers. Will reached out for Hannibal and caught his waist. Rested his hand there. Hannibal’s other hand came up and grasped Will’s face. He inhaled sharply.

Broke away. Locked eyes. Faces close.

“I’m sorry.”

Will’s brow furrowed. “No. Don’t be.”

Hannibal stepped back. “Occasionally I lose myself in a moment. Forgo any calculations and succumb to spontaneity.” Cleared his throat. “Those were words I never thought I would hear. Not from you. Actually hearing them caught me off guard.” He smiled. “You seem to be the only person who can do that.”

“I do try.”

Hannibal laughed quietly. “I don’t want either of us to become trapped in a moment, Will. Spontaneity is a dangerous thing. It is beneficial to us only on occasion.” He took his empty glass off the mantle, and turned, walked towards the kitchen. “We mustn’t spend too much time dwelling on what just happened.” He called over his shoulder. “You need time to work out how you feel. I intend to give you that time.”

The space around Will felt cold. An empty space in front of him, where Hannibal just stood. Where he should, Will concluded, still be standing. That’s where he belonged.

Will’s blood rushed through his veins. Hannibal was right. He needed time to work through whatever it was he was feeling. He didn’t know what he felt towards Hannibal, but he knew he felt it fiercely, with a tangible intensity, and he clung to it with every tendril of himself. Allowed it to fill him up and pour out of him.

Time. He needed time. Will, rooted by the fire, heat against Hannibal’s cardigan against his skin. Knew, somehow, that he wasn’t going to take very long.


	4. Thermocline

It was freezing. Will lay, curled into himself, one hand tucked between his knees, the other under his chin, for warmth. Head on the edge of the pillow. His ascent into consciousness made him irritatingly aware of the chill of the air on his cheek. He did not want to open his eyes. Did not want to throw the covers back and feel the frigidity rush over his body. Minutes passed. He willed himself to fall back asleep. To roll onto his back, inches closer to the warmth radiating from the other side of the bed. Realized he was lying far, far closer to the middle of the bed than usual.

His eyes shot open. Remembered. Suddenly wanted to get out of bed. Out of the bedroom. Away.

The cold tile of the bathroom cut into Will’s feet through his socks.

_It doesn’t mean anything._

Brushed his teeth. Stared, unblinking, at himself in the mirror.

_Don’t overthink this. It’s cold. I’m cold. It was the body heat. Not him._

His mind settled on that explanation. It was normal, he decided, to want to be physically close to someone you shared a bed with, especially in the cold.

Will spit into the sink. Ran the water. Splashed some onto his face. He turned over his shoulder, and through the bathroom door, watched Hannibal. His side rose and fell slowly. Still asleep. Or not. _Probably not._ Will never knew. 

There was less snow on the ground than Will expected, based on the storm last night. He glanced through the kitchen window as he passed. A dull, grayish blue, obscured here and there by low hanging wisps of clouds. Fitting. He busied himself with the wood he had brought inside yesterday, feeding the old, rusted furnace that sat tucked away in the corner. Kneeled by it and waited for the warmth. Held up his hands to it. The morning grew brighter.

There was a heaviness in Will’s head. A thick but quiet buzzing. This was a different cabin, now. The life he had come to know these past few months evaporated the moment Hannibal’s lips touched his. Tried to think about what differences this day may bring. What he should say. How he should act. How he should feel. He became frustrated at the fact that he had no idea how he should act or feel, or how he was currently feeling, at all.

His frustration was elongated when he discovered, in the kitchen, that they had no more coffee. He had intended to get more, days ago, and simply hadn’t. Tired eyes, cold fingers pressed into his temple. Goosebumpbs slowly melting into smooth and warmer skin. He decided to make breakfast. A carton of eggs, a pad of butter, a small amount of salt & pepper. The clicking of the gas stove coming to life accompanied by the quiet shutting of a door down the hall. Hannibal was awake.

Will felt his muscles tense up, his heart rate rise only slightly. He stared intently down at the pan, watching the butter slide around. He cracked two eggs into a mug, whisked them around lazily with a fork, then poured them into the pan. Sizzling and warm. Will leaned over the stove, felt the heat along his chin and jaw. Felt Hannibal walk into the room behind him. He pushed the eggs around in the pan with the fork, clumsily, folding them over each other, moving them around. 

“Good morning.” Hannibal’s voice startled Will, despite the fact that he knew he was there, and was waiting for him to speak.

“I’m making breakfast.” Will wished he didn’t sound so curt, so uncomfortable.

“I see that.”

“Do you want any eggs?” Cooking for Hannibal was an especially rare occasion, and Will wasn’t sure he could even really call it ‘cooking.’ It often involved simple soups. Toast. Cereal. He could never shake the nagging inadequacy that clutched his insides every time he placed a meal in front of Hannibal. But Hannibal never complained. Will dumped the overcooked, steaming contents of the pan onto a plate. 

“I would, yes.” Hannibal walked to the furnace, bent over it.

“How would you like them?” Flat. Feigned casualty. Will knew Hannibal could tell.

“Poached, if you will.”

A frown. “I don’t know how to poach an egg.”

“It’s easy.” Hannibal stood. “I can show you.” Strode towards the kitchen, towards Will. With every step he took, the air grew thinner. The room filled with static as Hannibal rummaged the cabinets. 

“Fill this with water,” Hannibal handed Will a medium sized pot. “Heat it to a low simmer.” Will absentmindedly did as instructed. Feeling, only slightly, uneasy. He waited, staring at the miniscule bubbles forming at the bottom of the pan. In his periphery, watched Hannibal pour in a small amount of vinegar with clear and focused eyes. “The vinegar helps the whites of the egg coagulate.” He explained, words pouring, smooth. “Now…”

Hannibal took a half step backwards and leaned behind Will, reaching for a small cup on the counter. One hand on Will’s shoulder for balance. The other brushed Will’s elbow as it passed. Hannibal’s forearm against Will’s back. Face above his shoulder. Will wasn’t sure if he was imagining Hannibal’s breath against his neck. He decided it was best if he was. Hannibal cracked an egg into the bowl with one hand, grabbed a whisk with the other, handed it to Will. “Stir.”

Will moved the whisk around in the simmering water with slow and unnecessary concentration.

“No,” Hannibal leaned slightly closer to Will. A low hum in Will’s ears. He placed his hand on the whisk, atop Will’s. “Much faster,” Will’s hand limp underneath Hannibal’s as he stirred. “We need to create a whirlpool so that the egg whites will wrap around the yolk.” Will wasn’t listening. He stared, pointedly, out the window, focused intently on nothing.

Hannibal noticed. He stepped back, gently pushed Will to the side. “Perhaps you should go get dressed.” He suggested. Will felt his face grow hot, embarrassed. He cleared his throat. Nodded. Left for the bedroom.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Will laced up his boots, fingers stiff, and felt himself retreating towards a state of mind he knew far too well. He forced Hannibal as far out of his mind as he could, shaking his head to himself, mumbling a quiet “No.”

He found Hannibal by the front door, wrapping a scarf around himself, tucking it into the collar of his coat.

“I’m going into town,” he explained to Will, “We’re out of coffee, and now eggs.” He sat in the chair next to the door and pulled on his boots.

“I was just getting ready to go, actually.” Will offered, a forced half-shrug. His shoulders started to itch. He needed to get into town. To clear his head.

“No need.” Hannibal stood, straightened his coat. “Now that we know we aren’t being hunted by the FBI, I’d like to get out of this cabin more often. And I’d like to pick out some wine this time.”

Will nodded. _Fair._ Focused on the unimportant part of the sentence. “Anything wrong with my selection?”

“Of course not.” Hannibal smiled and the itching on Will’s shoulders grew stronger. He ignored it. Rooted to where he stood. Watched Hannibal leave. If he didn’t have the trip into town, he at least had the separation. That would do for now.

And the cabin was quiet. Will was grateful for the time to think, but bitter when he found he couldn’t really think at all. Seconds went by, each one a half moment too long. Will wondered if this was how Hannibal felt, alone in the cabin while he ran the errands. A old boating novel, page pressed between his thumb and forefinger. Not absorbing any of the words.

Hannibal returned within the hour – quick, especially considering the condition of the roads. Will, silently grateful. One paper bag tucked under Hannibal’s arm.

“Well,” he kicked his boots against the wall, snow falling from them onto the doormat. No hello. “They’re looking for the mechanic. There were posters everywhere in town.”

Will closed the book in his lap slowly. His stomach filled with ice. “That’s not good.” Drawing out his words.

“No.” Hannibal, now in the kitchen, nonchalantly taking item by item out of the bag and placing them on the counter.

“What do we do?” Uneasy, right at his center. Will stood. Prepared.

Hannibal shot him a quizzical look. “Nothing.”

Book clenched tight, knuckles straining against skin. Will’s mouth was dry. He opened it to speak. Closed it. Couldn’t, despite his best effort, find the right words. His mind was otherwise occupied, 10 steps ahead of where it needed to be. Every possible outcome. He’d miss the cabin, but maybe they could head further west, or if they needed-

Hannibal approached him, stalking, eyes keen and observant. He took the book from Will’s grasp. Placed it on the coffee table. Grabbed both Will’s shoulders.

“We’ll be fine, Will. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Will, still for a moment, nodded, unconvinced. Hannibal’s hands kept his feet on the ground, kept the ground from falling out beneath him. Still he couldn’t shake the feeling that it would crack, and swallow them whole.

And then it was black, and the world was still, and Hannibal was next to him and all was as it should be. But Jack Crawford knocked on the cabin door and the entire structure collapsed, splintering into fragments of glass. They cut into Will’s feet. He bled with every footstep. There was a blanket around his shoulders and Jack was asking him if Hannibal hurt him. Hannibal was being loaded into a van, grasped on either side by two agents. Will started to walk towards him, but he was held back by a sudden pair of hands grasping his own arms. _Don’t worry._ Jack Crawford said. _He can’t hurt you anymore._ The van door slammed shut and all Will had was a glimpse of the top of Hannibal’s head through the barred window. _You’ll never have to see him again._

The scream didn’t quite make it all the way up Will’s throat. It came as a desperate and panicked gasp. Sweat adhered his shirt to his back. Hannibal shot up half a second later, hand grasping the back of Will’s neck.

“Will.” His other hand grasped Will’s shoulder, a reassuring squeeze. “Will. Breathe. You’ve had a nightmare.”

Will blinked around the dark room, rattling lungs slowly quieting. It was freezing.

“S-sorry…” He felt his hair against his forehead, the cool dampness of sweat on the sheets behind him.

“No need for apologies.” Hannibal gave Will’s shoulder one last squeeze before standing. He left, walking towards the hall. Will kept his eyes fixed on him the whole time, silent and desperate, a faint outline against a black room. Hannibal returned with a stack of sheets. One, he gave to Will, wrapped around his shoulders to keep out the cold while Hannibal changed the sheets. Will stood in the corner. Watched Hannibal work. Tried not to think about the dream.

Hannibal led him back to the bed, hands resting light on his arm.

“Are you going to be alright?”

Against the dim light coming from the half-closed bathroom, Will looked at Hannibal. Saw what was etched on his face. The purity and truth and concern, the flecks of wanting. Will only saw it when he wanted to, but even with his back turned, it lurked, hungry, behind Hannibal’s eyes. Unmarred and untamed.

A beat too long.

“I’m fine.”

Hannibal, asleep against the pillow, eyes shut, slow breaths. Will, wide-awake, staring at Hannibal’s face, and all he wanted to do was touch it. His own truth building in his chest, larger with every breath Hannibal took. Clawing upwards. Will shifted in the bed. Dry sheets underneath him. Hannibal breathed an unconscious, heavy sigh. Will took hold of the truth in his chest, now too big for his body. Released it into his mind, the very space he had tried to keep it from. Hannibal, inches from him.

_I cannot lose you._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

They never talked about the kiss. Neither actively trying to avoid it. It simply never came up. Will wanted to talk about it. To broach the subject of Hannibal’s physical attraction towards him. It hung over him, constantly, wrapped its hands around Will’s head, covered his eyes, clouded him. If Hannibal wanted to talk, he didn’t show it. He made no insinuations. Never alluded to his feelings. Never touched Will other than the shoulder, his arms. His hands, when necessary. Each time Will felt the static jump between their fingers.

Hannibal said he would give Will time, and Will came to realize that he truly meant it. Any exploration of the physicality between them would have to, Will concluded, be initiated by him. An incredibly dismaying thought. He was never one to initiate anything. The jump to a physical relationship was a small one, given their current circumstances, Will’s newfound truth, Hannibal’s attraction to him. But it was a jump nonetheless. Will doubted he could make it.

So nothing happened.

For a while, at least.

Eating together in silence. A bright, unusually sunny afternoon. Snow on the ground melting in patches where the sunlight fell through the trees. A small fleck of food sat, out of place, on the corner of Hannibal’s mouth.

“You’ve got-” Will tried not to sound too amused. “Here.” He only realized what he’d done when his thumb landed soft on the crease in the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. His heart beat up into his throat. He wiped away the food, first, then paused. Ran his thumb along the edge of Hannibal’s lips once more. Will felt the beginnings of a tremor, a sudden surge of adrenaline, removed his hand before Hannibal would notice. Stared pointedly at his plate. Hannibal, transfixed, took a moment to look at Will, his flushed cheeks and avoidant eyes, before returning to his own meal.

Small touches, initiated by Will, became commonplace. Brushing Hannibal’s hair out of the way when he leaned over a cutting board. Leaning slightly against him whenever Hannibal showed him an illustration or a recipe.

One night, blanket in hand, book tucked underneath his arm, Will walked into the tiny living space off the kitchen. Hannibal sat, engrossed in a book of his own, on the sofa near the fire. Will walked over and sat, next to Hannibal, pulled his knees up onto the couch and leaned over. Head resting against Hannibal’s shoulder. Pressed up against him, as casually as he possibly could, as if he hadn’t had to talk himself into this just minutes before, alone in the bathroom. He shifted, began to pull the blanket up over his knees. Offered half to Hannibal.

“You cold?”

“I’m alright. Thank you.” Will couldn’t see his face but he could hear the expression on it when Hannibal spoke.

“Suit yourself.” Kicking the blankets into place. Opening his book. Steadying his breath. He had trouble focusing on the words whenever Hannibal’s shoulder shifted with the turning of a page.

One morning came so frozen it was unholy. Will rolled over in bed and the cover slipped off his shoulder, allowing the biting air to flood over it, dousing him in ice.

“Holy shit.” Will groaned into the pillow.

Hannibal, already awake, groaned his return. “I know.”

“If we get up, we’re going to die.” Will half-smiled, half-grimaced into his pillow. “Here,” He shifted towards the center of the bed. Beckoned for Hannibal to do the same.

His heart didn’t beat into his throat, ribs did not constrict his lungs, he did not shake when Hannibal pulled him in, wrapped his arms around him. Instead, Will felt lighter.

More importantly, he felt warmer. Tucked into Hannibal, heat radiating off of him.

“One of us is going to have to get up eventually,” Hannibal, after a few moments of pleasant silence. The sky a dull gray but piercingly bright. Shadows of the blinds on their window cast across the bed, patches of blinding white between them. “Put wood in the furnace. Start a fire.”

“Or we could just die here, warm.”

“A bit anti-climactic for us, don’t you think?”

Will laughed. “Maybe just a bit.” Hannibal, eyes creased in a smile. Will moved closer. Looked down. Realized. An entirely new frigidity washed over him, a sort of horror.

Hannibal had definitely felt it pressing against him. Will reached down, fumbling, tried to adjust himself. “Jesus, I-” awkwardly propping himself up on his elbow, half rolling away from Hannibal. “I’m – god, I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice-” Face deepening in its red shade.

“Will,” Hannibal sounded more annoyed than anything else, “I’m not only a doctor, I’m also a man. It happens all the time. It’s fine, really, I don’t care.”

Will stared. Knew there was a concrete truth in Hannibal’s words, but an intense and visceral shame coiled around his insides all the same.

“Come back, or I’ll freeze to death.”

Reluctant. Will moved in and allowed himself to be wrapped up in Hannibal once more, this time, positioned more strategically, so as to not touch Hannibal. At least not with _that_.

Will was sure the next question was prompted by his panicked reaction.

“Have you ever been intimate with a man before, Will?”

His eyebrows shot up.

“What, we never talked about this in my years of therapy?” He turned to look up at Hannibal. “Aren’t these the sort of questions you’re supposed to ask people?”

“How does that make you feel, tell me about your mother, have you ever had a crisis of sexuality…” Hannibal, mocking, echoing himself. “I could go on. Though I think we’ve only touched base on the first two.”

“So now you want to talk about my sexual crisis.” Sarcastic.

“So you _have_ had one, then?”

 _Damn it._ Will knew better. But the subject had been broached. _Oh what the hell._

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“I’m very supportive of experimentation.” Hannibal offered.

“I don’t know if I’d call it experimentation.”

Hannibal silently prompted Will to continue speaking.

“Uh, ok.” Will tensed, then relaxed against Hannibal. “His name was Dean. He worked at the same precinct as me. We actually trained together. I knew he was gay, everyone did, and I knew he liked me.”

“And what did you feel towards him?”

“I don’t know. This wasn’t a crisis I ever actually resolved.” Will paused. Pondered the motivation behind Hannibal’s question. “He was really… great. He was nice. We had drinks together. With people from work, but we always kind of…splintered off from the group. Just to talk.”

Another silent prompt to continue.

“He, uh…” Will coughed. “He kissed me. I didn’t really do anything to dissuade him. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t really know how I felt about it, so…yeah…” He trailed off.

“That was that?” Hannibal’s voice had lowered in volume. A new, more serious edge, to match the tone that Will hadn’t realized he was speaking in.

“No. He tried to give me a blowjob. Started to, actually. I stopped him before things got too…” Will felt the same wave of shame, starting at his head, making its way rapidly down his body. This time, accompanied by something else. Different. Distantly familiar. “And _then_ that was that.”

“You never spoke to him again?”

“We spoke. Just, not about anything that happened.” Will brought his hand up to his head, scratched a spot behind his ear. “I think he figured out that it was just a phase.”

Hannibal’s chest rose and fell underneath Will. “Was it?”

The distantly familiar feeling would not leave Will’s body. The pit of his stomach. He hated it. Wanted it gone. Wanted the conversation to be over. Deflected. “I don’t know. Maybe. Could have just been him. He _was_ mesmerizingly attractive, after all.”

Hannibal gave Will a small shove with his shoulder.

“Six two. Blonde. These grayish blue eyes, and he was built like-”

“Alright, enough.” Will was pushed into a sitting position as Hannibal sat upright. He turned and smiled at him. Smile met with a playful scowl.

Will watched, covers tucked up to his chin, as Hannibal, hunched and shivering, dressed for the day. He volunteered to get wood for the furnace. Will volunteered to stay in bed. And he did, as Hannibal left, walking down the hallway. He heard the front door open, then close, and the cabin was quiet.

Pillow behind him still warm from Hannibal. He pressed his head back down into it. Closed his eyes. Saw Dean’s. Gray, flecks of blue and green and yellow. He was always so attentive, hanging on to every word Will spoke. The way his hand felt, on the back of Will’s head, fingers running through his hair, noses pressed together. That feeling. _God._ Will’s hands found their way underneath the waistband of his flannel pajama pants. He gripped himself, already ready, a loose fist, up, down, slowly. Dean pushing him up against the wall in the bathroom of the bar. Faster now. A tighter grip. Breathing heavily through his nose. Dean kissed him, his jaw, his neck, he rolled his head back, hands grasping, clutching Dean’s back. Dean’s fingers didn’t fumble unbuttoning Will’s pants. He knew exactly what he was doing. And there was _that feeling._ Will rolled his head sideways, pressed it into the pillow. His jeans, his boxers at his knees. Every inch of him surging. The tip of his cock against Dean’s lips, his back arched against the wall. _Come on. Do it already. Please._ He arched his back against the bed. It was still warm from Hannibal. His cock was in Dean’s mouth, hand on top of his head, gripping his hair. _Hannibal._ Pumping fist grew faster. Brow furrowed, breathing now a quick and shallow pant. Hannibal looked up at him from the bar’s bathroom floor, one hand on Will’s thigh, the other on his waist. Will’s eyes flew open. _No, no, come on._ Too close. He was too close. _Don’t think about it._ He gripped himself again. Hannibal’s hair underneath his fingers and he was on fire with that feeling, consumed, he wanted it to burn him, to turn him to ash, to – _oh god_ -

Neck strained, head lifted off the pillow, he held his breath as it shook his body. Sank down into the bed when it released him.

It wasn’t sixty seconds before Will was wrought with disgrace. 

He could hear Hannibal putting wood into the furnace. He hadn’t heard him come in. Wondered a sickening thought. Got up. Washed himself off. Volunteered, later in the day, to do the laundry.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

One morning they awoke to a room that was unexpectedly warm. They’d been having a quite a few unexpectedly warm days now, snow around the cabin a thick and dripping slush, brown with mud. Outside of the bedroom window, it crunched softly under quick footsteps.

Will’s eyes flew open. Hannibal was already sat upright in bed. He glanced at Will. Held a finger to his lips. Listened.

“…way in hell he’s out here, Dave.” Muffled through glass. A woman. “He didn’t know Pam or John.”

Hannibal tossed back the covers. Swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Will sat up. His whole body rigid. 

“No, no – I… I know that, it’s just that the last time I talked – holy shit.”

Hannibal stood, at the window now. Muffled voice further away, but still audible.

“He’s here, Dave, he’s – yes, he is, his truck, it’s right here. I’ll call you back!”

Hannibal turned. He and Will looked at each other, still. Will’s eyes wild. Hannibal’s, steel.

“ISAAC!”

Hannibal’s spine straightened. Shoulders back. A drawn bowstring. 

“ISAAC, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE? EVERYONE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

Hannibal, with one last glance to Will, walked out of the bedroom with ghost like footsteps. Will gripped sheets between his fists. Held his breath.

“ISAAC, COME OUT HERE, I SWEAR TO-”

Will could barely hear it over the shrieking ring in his ears. The blood sizzling in front of his eyes, his chest suffocating his lungs. But then,

The sound of the front door opening. 

“Who-?”

A muffled crack.

A thud.

Hannibal reappeared in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Get dressed. Pack what you can. We’re leaving.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

They lived in an old, crumbling lighthouse, for two weeks, waiting for warmer weather to settle in. Hannibal would hardly call it warm, but Will knew the difference. How the temperatures affected the winds affected the tides affected the two of them. They could, Will reasoned, leave now, but it would be safer to wait. All the same, he _wanted_ to leave. Hannibal made sure he was consistent in reassuring Will that they would be safe here. He could see the fidgeting, constant, in Will’s head while he spoke. Wanted to quiet it.

Hannibal had sat in the passengers seat for almost the entire drive across the country. Looked constantly at Will who drove white knuckled, eyes clear, pointed ahead. Focused on a specific destination. Pulled off the highway one day and drove half an hour to an old coastal town. Florida air thick and hot and sticky against Hannibal’s skin with the window rolled down. He watched as Will drove slowly through an old neighborhood, eyes flicking between every street sign. Hoping Will knew where he was going. But he never said anything. Will needed to know that this life was his too – a _life_ \- not just Hannibal’s plan. Hannibal _needed_ Will to know that he could trust him. These decisions were his as well.

So he didn’t question where Will had taken them, when Will led him through the brush, a hole in a chainlink fence, an old beach, half sand, half rock, glistening here and there with broken glass. The lighthouse, an ominous crack down the side, pale blue and white, paint peeling, rusted metal.

Hannibal nodded as Will told him how he used to work around here as a teenager, knew the owner who ran a dock in town, knew that he left this place years ago. Nodded and understood, but altogether not really listening. Watched as Will ducked his head while he spoke. Squeezed the back of his neck with his palm. Curls against his forehead, twitching in the breeze. Post-twilight, pre-blackness, the sand under his shoes, the scruff on Will’s neck. Wind whipped around them, cold and biting. They went inside. Will struggled with the old furnace, so Hannibal held him while they slept.

In the morning he woke and turned and the light hit Will’s face against the pillow and he felt in his center a familiar shiver. Will’s eyelids lay soft over his eyes and all Hannibal wanted was to press his lips lightly against them. But they fluttered open, met Hannibal, met the morning. The shiver returned as Will looked at him, underneath his fingers as he pressed them to the side of Will’s face.

Will was here. With him. Was with him on the way out west, at the cabin, on the way to Florida, and here, in the lighthouse. Hannibal knew this, but, for whatever reason, could not convince himself of it. He wanted, for so long. And now he was here. But every night Hannibal would go to sleep wondering if he would still be in the morning.

Will could go. Hannibal knew that. Find a suitable boat. Escape. He would leave, go to town, scout out boats they could possibly take. Hannibal was relieved every time he returned. One afternoon he was out later than usual. Hannibal watched the waves, tried to sync his heartbeat to them so as to slow it down. It skyrocketed when Will returned, trying not to smile, talking excitedly and in unnecessary detail of a stray dog he had been on the docks with. Hannibal, mesmerized as he spoke, clinging not to every word, but to every emotion behind them.

Will, finally satisfied with the weather, settled on a sailboat, about 35 feet with a decent-sized cabin. Nothing too fancy or complicated. Owned by a wealthy family who showed up only during the months of June and July. They packed their things onto it, the few small suitcases they had brought.

“Do you name it, then?” Hannibal asked, Will walking purposefully across the deck, lengths of rope in his arms. “Is that tradition?”

“Already has a name.” He said, huffing slightly as he let the rope drop. “Bad luck to rename it before you sail out.”

Hannibal nodded. Walked out on the deck to the side of the boat. He stopped in place when he saw the name _Molly_ in faded black paint, cursive, on the side of the boat.

He watched Will, kneeled over, focused intently on quickly untying another length of rope.

Will would never be his. So that night, skies dark navy, on the small twin mattress in the cabin, Hannibal held on for dear life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this without proofreading too much because I know if I do, I'll never post it. Kind of posting in a hurry, so I hope everything is ok!


	5. Aweigh

“Cuánto cuesta?”

“Cuánto cuesta.”

“Solo mirando, gracias.”

“Solo mirado, gracias.”

“Ah – _mirando._ ”

“Yo sé, lo siento - _mirando._ ”

“Una mesa para dos, por favor.”

“Una mesa para dos, por favor.”

“Recomendarías el vino blanco o tinto?”

Will scrunched his face. “Really?” Turned to look at Hannibal. “Wine selection?”

Hannibal shrugged. “I assumed you were a level above ‘where is the bathroom’.”

“I am, but it’s not exactly the most useful of phrases, is it?”

“What would you rather learn?”

“I don’t know,” Will crossed, then uncrossed his legs. “Maybe something more along the lines of ‘No, él no es esé asesino. Él solo se parece a él.”

Hannibal could not help but laugh. “Your Spanish is better than you give yourself credit for.”

“I know, I was fluent once, you’re the one who insists on the lessons.”

“How else would you pass the time?”

“Literally any other way.” Will cringed, to himself, as the words left his mouth. A lot harsher than he had intended. He glanced, sideways, at Hannibal. Felt a small rush of relief when he saw that the comment hadn’t bothered him that much. Hannibal put his hands up in mock defeat.

“Alright. We can take a break.”

They’d been at sea for two days. Something strange and unfamiliar took hold of Will as he watched Florida fade away. Jack, Molly, Walter. The FBI. Wolf Trap and Baltimore. His dogs. Everything fading with the shoreline. He’d looked towards the bow, to the flat, endless horizon ahead of him. Somewhere in that direction, weeks and thousands of miles away, his new life sat in waiting. When he looked back, Florida was gone. His stomach flipped over, a lump in his throat, but the thing that was constricting his heart withdrew its claws and loosened its grip. He looked forward once more. Hannibal stood in front of him now, one hand on the life rail, squinting into the same horizon, towards the same life. An entirely new creature sunk its nails into Will’s heart. Tightening its grip when he walked to Hannibal, arm against arm, leaned his head on his shoulder. Tighter still when Hannibal slipped his arm around him and pulled him closer. He wished it would squeeze his heart until it burst.

Will tried, desperately, not to think about the Will he left behind. The Will who had to falsely and constantly reassure others of his sanity. Whose dogs loved him and relied upon him and told him that he could not possibly be that bad a person. Who spent countless nights wondering when his love for Walter would become his own, and not borrowed from his wife. The Will who had to convince himself, night after night, that his hatred for Hannibal was all consuming and unwavering.

He didn’t have to convince himself of anything, now. But he could feel his old self, trailing the ship like a ghost, calling out in the night. Beckoning him to come back. He could still, after everything, go back. But the thought sickened him. So whenever the voice was too loud, too haunting, he’d shift in the small bed, turn over, press his face against the scar on Hannibal’s shoulder, and everything would quiet.

It was hard, sometimes, to ignore his old life on a ship called _Molly_. He’d found photos and a journal in the cabin that told him Molly was in fact the name of the owner’s deceased daughter. Will had seen, out of the corner of his eye, the look on Hannibal’s face as he walked down the dock and saw the peeling black letters. He waited for Hannibal to ask about it. He never did.

Hannibal, very clearly, hated being at sea. He paced, frequently, the length of the boat, seemingly unsatisfied when it came to an end. Gripping the life rail, squeezing it, then turning around and walking the length once more. Boredom, Will reasoned, due to the fact that Hannibal had recently been unable to read. Whenever he tried, his eyes would begin to screw shut, breathing heavily through his nose. Ten minutes in, he’d be vomiting over the side of the boat, Will’s hand resting between his shoulder blades, thumb gliding atop vertebrae.

After a few days, the currents began to cooperate, and Will’s ghost slipped farther and farther behind _Molly_ , struggling to keep up. The late winter sun. Hannibal’s newfound sense of balance.

This was the sea Will knew.

Course set and currents steady, Will sat on the bow of the ship, a bright afternoon, legs kicked out in front of him. Sun warming his eyelids, a cool breeze against his face, the sound of water lapping around the sides of the ship.

Hannibal sat further down the bow, against the foreheatch. He’d emerged from the cabin with a pencil and a sketchbook. Sat down without a word.

Will was careful to only glance over at Hannibal when Hannibal wasn’t looking. Eyes fixed to the paper in his lap. Pencil twitching expertly, back and forth, quick scratching strokes against the page. Hannibal, it seemed, was doing the same, looking up at Will only when he faced forward, towards the bow. Observing. Will felt Hannibal’s eyes on his face. The side of his neck. His shoulders. Sun grew warmer, reaching into his chest. Hannibal looked up once more and their gaze met in the middle. Neither looked away. Hannibal’s eyes still traveling around Will’s body. Will watching them with just as much focus. They sailed into a shadow but the warmth did not subside.

Once more in the sun, seconds later. A glint against silver in Hannibal’s hand. A small blade. Will closed his eyes.

And suddenly, something was funny. A blade in Hannibal’s hand and he had closed his eyes. Will laughed quietly to himself.

Stopped.

“You…” Will shifted. Pulling his knees towards him. Not really thinking too much about what he was saying. “You tried to have me killed.”

Hannibal blew the pencil shavings off the edge of the blade. “Yes, I did.”

“Several times. And my family.” Will, head cocked, staring upwards. “And you framed me for murder.”

Hannibal nodded. Slow. Gripped the edge of the sketchbook awkwardly.

“You tried to kill me yourself.” Absent minded fingers against the scar on his forehead. “Had you not been interrupted, you would have killed and ate me.”

Hannibal paused before his unsure answer. “I would have, yes.”

“Then…” Will, considering their situation. The nothingness below them, above them, in every direction. The silence. Their isolation. 

Quiet. “…why do I feel so safe?”

Hannibal looked at Will with a look Will couldn’t recognize. “It’s a peculiar thing.”

“What is?”

Tiny waves breaking against the hull. Pencil limp between Hannibal’s fingers.

He didn’t answer.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The cabin was particularly small for a boat of this size. A small fridge. One sink. A tiny, half broken stove. The bookshelf was, annoyingly, empty, save for a few family photographs. A stained wooden table, attached haphazardly to the wall. A small twin mattress tucked away in the back room, barely big enough for two people. Will and Hannibal slept each night legs and arms tangled together. Dark wood and few windows. Will didn’t particularly like being in there. He spent most of his time on the deck, with the sea. Hannibal wouldn’t go in if he could avoid it, for different reasons entirely.

Even given the expanse around them, a strange sense of confinement loomed around the sails. Going somewhere, fast, and at the same time, unable to go anywhere at all. There was no leaving for town whenever Hannibal looked at him in ways that made his breathing quicken. No wood to chop, outside and away, to distract him. No avoiding Hannibal. No avoiding his own thoughts. So Will busied himself how he could, which mostly involved observing the winds and the currents. Tying and untying knots. Staring out to sea. Hannibal found his balance soon enough, and spent his time reading on the deck. When the winds were strong and currents steady, Will would sit with him. Head resting on his thigh, eyes to the clouds, Hannibal’s hand in his hair.

It was cold and humid that morning. An unpleasant and uncomfortable combination. Blanket around his shoulders, Will stepped out of the cabin and into the dull pre-dawn sky, sleep still stuck to his skin. A thick mist hung low over the ocean, shrouded the top of the sails. Moving over his skin. Goosebumps. Cold, wet air in lungs and he felt half drowned. Hannibal followed, arms crossed against his chest, shoulders hunched over.

“There’s going to be a storm tonight.” Will’s voice rough in his throat. Eyelids heavy.

“How can you tell?”

Salt in his lungs. “I can smell it.”

Will turned to look at Hannibal, stood halfway in the hatch to the cabin, hair falling in front of his face, lines under his eyes. He frowned, face upturned. “I can’t.”

Will shrugged. Adjusted the blanket on his shoulders. “Not a lot of people can. I’ve just been on the water a lot.”

Hannibal didn’t seem satisfied with this answer, but nodded all the same. He retreated into the cabin, emerging minutes later with two steaming mugs. Will sat on the deck, wet with cold, Hannibal next to him, moved his blanket so that it enveloped the two of them together. Ceramic scalding his palms. Bitter coffee against his sandpaper tongue.

The beginnings of Will’s prediction started in the early afternoon. A drop in temperature. A light drizzle. They watched out the small window above the sink as it grew heavier and heavier, banging against the window, ominous in its rattling crescendo. Larger waves began to rock the ship. Needle on the compass not where it should be. Will tugged a hat down over the tops of his ears.

“I’ll need you out there.” Thick, rubber soled boots. Zipping up his jacket. “I’ll yell for you when I’m ready.”

Hannibal, trying desperately not to look as ill as he felt, pursed his lips, a curt nod. Stood and began to dress in his own boots and jacket.

The wind hit Will like a wall the second he stepped out of the cabin and he realized with an uneasy stomach the severity of their situation. Took a moment, squinting against the pounding rain, to observe the sails, the wind. Running off was too risky. Lying ahull, waiting it out in the warmth of the cabin, was tempting, but the storm was nothing Will couldn’t handle. But the wind picked up, quick, pressing heavy against Will’s chest. The storm sails were old and weathered. The _real_ storm hung in the distance, far from them, but the edges of it whipped around _Molly_ , began rocking her heavily. Blinking away piercing raindrops. He made his call.

Hannibal was on the deck the moment Will yelled for him.

“I’m going to need you to help me trim the sails,” Will, near-shouting over the howling rain, “And when I say so, I’m going to have you position the rudder and then secure it with that rope.”

Hannibal stared, blank eyes narrowed in the rain.

“Just do what I tell you.”

Hannibal, on one knee, turning the crank, slow and forceful. Sail slowly shifting. Will tugging at the rope. Eyeing how much the boat heeled in the winds. Steering into it. Winds ripping through the jib and mainsail.

“Ok!” Will, yelling now, wind screaming against them, took the crank from Hannibal, kept turning. Pointed him towards the helm, a length of rope underneath it. Hannibal made his way over, Will, arms wild, showing him which way to turn it and how far, where to secure the rope. Deafened. Puncturing rain. He turned back to the sails, made sure they were trimmed to where they needed to be. A muffled, frantic shout from behind him.

“Will, I need-”

“Hold on!”

“ _WILL!_ ”

Will spun just in time to see Hannibal’s fingers seized up, the rope ripping through his palms.

The helm spun wild, ship heeling sharp and sudden. Will dove, but the deck slipped out from underneath him. Head cracked against the life rail. Everything went white, the sound of rain stopped, replaced by an excruciating ringing. The deck against his side, water beating into him, gravity rapidly switching places. He felt himself lifted, dragged by his arms. Ringing subsided, shrieking wind whipping his soaking hair around his face. And then he was at the helm, end of a length of rope pushed into his hands. Spun the rudder into place. Tightened the knot around the helm. Frayed ends wet with salt and blood.

Hannibal half-carried Will back into the cabin. Both collapsing onto the small bench near the table, gasping, shaking, drenched.

“Will,” hands on the side of his face. “Will, are you alright?” Fear palpable in Hannibal’s voice.

Will nodded. Head swimming. “I’m – yeah, I’m ok.” Nodded again. “I’m ok.” Brought a hand to the side of his head, where he had made contact with the metal rail. Pressed two fingers to it. A sizeable bump. Shooting pain. Put his hand back down and saw that it was covered in rain diluted scarlet.

“Am I -?” Hand halfway to his head once more. Stopped the question once he saw Hannibal’s hands, palms upward, rested against his knees. Flesh peeled back in gory patches where the rope had sliced them open. Blood pooling in the center. Will realized the wet on his face was not entirely rain.

“Oh my god,” Will stood, too fast, vision turning gray. Hannibal’s bloody hand at his elbow, steadying him. He threw open the cabinet over the fridge, snatched the first aid kit, got to work. Water washing away blood. _Molly_ rocking violently in place.

The morning came eerily calm, as it often did after storms. Clouds in the distance yellow and gray, sandwiching a blue-green sky between them and the sea. In the back room of the cabin, blankets up to their shoulders, Will’s brain pounded against his skull against the pillow in rhythm with his pulse. Bandages on Hannibal’s palm rough against his forearm.

The ship was fine. They were fine. They were on course. But Will dug his fingers into the back of Hannibal’s shoulder in the brief moments before consciousness, as if he might again fall away.

Mist lifted by early afternoon. Dull greens replaced with a clear and vibrant blue. Will emerged from the cabin, first aid kit in hand, silently walked to Hannibal who lay near the edge of the bow, sat next to him. Took his palms in his hands. Gentle and slow.

“Does it hurt?”

Hannibal sat up. “Not too terribly, no.”

Will’s eyes on Hannibal’s palms and Hannibal’s eyes on Will. He peeled back the bandages. Bits of flesh sticking to them. Tossed them aside. Began to dab at the wounds with wads of alcohol soaked cotton.

His palms upturned, Hannibal’s resting lightly on top. Idle fingers running slowly across Hannibal’s knuckles. “These are going to scar.”

“That’s quite alright.” Flexed his palm, stretching the wound. Half wincing, half smiling. “Just a few more to add to the collection.”

Will tucked the end of the new bandage in upon itself. Eyes traveled down Hannibal’s palms, up his wrists. Singular, faint, slightly sunken white lines running the length of each of his wrists. Hesitant. Reached out, grazing the surface of the scars, running the length of them.

“I like those.” Hannibal, leaning over, down, forehead close to Will’s. The tissue moved independent of the rest of the skin on Hannibal’s arms as Will pressed his fingers more firmly against it. Wrinkling. Light and soft. “They were an important part of your becoming.” 

“When I tried to have you killed.” Whispering now.

“Yes.” Hannibal shifted where he sat. “Others, I’m not so proud of.”

Will looked up. “Such as?”

An answer without pause. “The Verger brand.”

Will sat back on his knees. Focused, intent, on his breathing. Reached out. Hands buzzing. Gripped fabric between fingers. Tugged upwards. Hannibal helped, moving his arms into place as Will pulled the shirt over his head.

He leaned back. It was pink and raised. Some of the more intricate details lost in the seared tissue. Pads of his fingers pressed against the crown. Tracing the letters. Hannibal, head turned to the side, watching Will over his shoulder. “I’d like to think of it as a victory scar, maybe. But Mason was so sour a person I can’t seem to think of a way to feel positively about it at all.”

“Understandable.” Will, sitting back on his knees once more. Careful not to touch Hannibal anywhere but his scars. Not sure why. The afternoon air suddenly too thick. Too hot. Will cleared his throat. “Any favorites?”

Hannibal licked his lips in thought. Leaned back to the sky. “Possibly… the large one on my shoulder.”

Will, eyebrows lowered. “The one you got when we…?”

He couldn’t finish.

“Yes.”

“You’re…that’s your favorite?”

“The one I’m most proud of.”

Whispering again. Will didn’t try and hide the crack in his voice this time. “Why?”

“Because,” Hannibal’s hands now on Will’s shoulders. Squeezing them. “It was an honor to be killed by you, Will Graham.” His voice deep. Sure and steady. “As we plummeted for the water I knew that it was the only way I’d be satisfied in death. This scar reminds me of that.”

Will felt his chest collapse in upon itself.

Hannibal’s hand gripped Will’s wrist. Brought it to the still forming, wide scar across his shoulder, stretching towards the center of his chest, underneath his collar bone. Will rested his hand upon it.

Hannibal’s skin so soft it was terrifying.

Night fell fast. Thick clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the stars. Will watched for the moon under the water. Visible only now and again as it slipped between clouds. Blackness in every direction but for the soft yellow glow of the cabin.

“Will.”

He turned. Hannibal in the entrance of the cabin. Two empty wine glasses in one hand, a bottle in the other. Will sat, expecting Hannibal to come to him. But he didn’t. He stood, leaning slightly to the side, a silent invitation for Will to follow.

Hannibal hated the confinement of the small cabin but the way he looked around at the blackness that swallowed the ship showed a deeper, more visceral fear. The sinister nothingness. Will stood. Deck cool against his bare feet.

Ten minutes and Hannibal was complaining.

“We should have brought more wine.”

Will, eyebrow raised, tilted back his glass and finished the last few sips. “We brought four bottles. For a two week trip. Which is four more than we needed.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Hannibal, wiping away a smudge on the rim of his empty glass between thumb and forefinger. “I’d say it’s four fewer.”

The way the light hit the side of Hannibal’s hair and his eyes on the glass and them stem between his fingers and Will wished he had somewhere else to go. Somewhere where he could breathe deeper and more easily, somewhere bigger than the Atlantic. He took Hannibal’s glass and his own. Placed them in the sink. Clinking together softly.

“I’m going to sleep soon. Wind’s probably going to pick up a bit by morning. I want to be up early.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Will, embarrassed, made no mention of how much the two glasses of wine had affected him. Pulled off his shirt, pants. Crawled into bed in boxers, warm enough. There was hardly any space for Hannibal but he fit nonetheless, stepping cautiously over Will and settling between him and the wall. Faces close enough for their noses to touch. Will closed his eyes and listened to Hannibal breathe.

And then there was a thumb on his forehead, stroking his hair sideways. He opened his eyes. 

“What about yours, then?” Hannibal, fixated on the faded horizontal scar across Will’s forehead. 

Will’s fingers pressed against Hannibal’s wrist. Pulled them away from the scar. 

“I don’t like that one.” He turned over, back to Hannibal. “It was… unexpectedly upsetting, knowing you were going to kill me.” Exhale. “I knew you were going to. But I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t. But you would have.”

Will moved Hannibal’s hand down to his shoulder. Pressed his thumb against the circular scar tissue where Chiyoh’s bullet had ripped through him. “I like this one.” Corner of his lips twitching into a slight smile. “My own personal ‘I-almost-killed-you-but-didn’t’ scar.” 

Hannibal’s breath warm against the back of Will’s neck as he laughed. “I like that one too. Though I owe that scar my continued survival, so I may be a little biased.”

Will moved backwards. Settling in against Hannibal. Blood rushed towards the next scar. _That_ scar. It tingled as he dragged his middle finger along the length of it. Sent a shiver through his abdomen. The air in the room changed.

“I’m not proud of this one.” Voice shaking. “But… I’m glad I have it.”

Something pressing against the small of his back.

Will realized what it was. Face burning. He froze, tense, only for a moment. Relaxed as Hannibal’s hands grasped his sides at his ribs, moved down the length of his waist, bandages dragging against skin. Will could feel his heart beating in his throat. He leaned further backwards. Pressed himself into Hannibal. Hannibal grew harder. Hands traveling around Will’s waist, to his abdomen. Palm against his scar. The shiver, again, through his abdomen, under Hannibal’s hand, down into his cock. Sharp inhale through his nose. Hannibal’s breath hot against the side of his neck.

Hand slipping under the waistband. The other still pressed against his scar. 

“I…” Will shuddered as Hannibal reached for him. Fingers running the length of his shaft. “I – Jesus…” Stroking him to stiffness. Straining against his boxers. Hannibal wrapped his hand around it now. Will arched backwards, Hannibal’s lips hot and wet against his neck, his stubble. “I, Hann… I can’t…” Hard to talk through gasping breaths. “N-no,”

 _Keep going._ Will screwed his eyes shut. Open mouth. Gasps. _Keep going._ Nothing in the world existed but Hannibal’s hands. His lips, at his ear now, biting gently on it. Will, harder now, throbbed. Hannibal did as well, pressed up against the small of Will’s back, and suddenly, mindlessly, Will’s own hands were in his boxers, acting independent of his brain, the surging in his chest. Pried Hannibal off of him. Threw the sheets back and stumbled, clumsily, out of the bed. “I can’t, I... I can’t, I’m sorry, I…” Cheeks and forehead hot. Still as hard as before. Hannibal propped himself up on his elbow, blanket draped across his waist, hair out of place across his forehead, opened his mouth to say something, but Will turned on his heel. Scrambled out of the cabin.

 _What the fuck. What the fuck._ Will, running his hand through his hair, shallow panicked breaths. _Why did I… why didn’t I just let him –_ He bent over, hands on his knees. Ghost of Hannibal’s fingers around him, still. Bit down too hard on his bottom lip. Began to ache. Leaned against the small bench near the helm.

Gripped himself, closed his eyes, tried to pretend his hands weren’t his own. Angry and unsatisfied when he finished.

He felt like crying.

The heat in his face and chest and groin slipped away and he was freezing. Will rooted himself where he sat. Hunched over, head tucked down. One palm pressed against the scar on his abdomen. He heard Hannibal’s footsteps approach but did not look up. Kept his head down as the blanket draped around his shoulders. Hannibal sat next to him.

Silence but for the calm static of sloshing water.

“Are you alright?”

Will stared blankly ahead. _Yes._ He sighed. _No?_

“You would save yourself a lot of strife, Will,” Hannibal, leaning in, not too close. “If you allowed yourself to have the things you truly want.”

“Denying myself the things I want seems to be my default state.” Bitter. “Apparently.”

Hannibal moved inches closer, tugged against the side of the blanket. “You need to remember how it feels to allow yourself. How you felt when-”

“Can we just,” Will, loud, cut him off. “Can we not talk about it? Please?”

Moon moved from behind a cloud. Illuminated the deck. Gleamed against the metallic center of the helm. Hannibal leaned away. Offering, reluctantly,

“Would you like me to sleep somewhere else tonight?”

Will sat up. Head pounding. “No.” He saw Hannibal’s tensed shoulders drop with an exhale. Saw how he dug his fingernails into his palms. Looking around, eyes darting from place to place in the blackness. _Change the subject._

He breathed, cool air in his lungs like water, exhaled the hot and swarming shame.

“It really makes you that uncomfortable?”

Hannibal looked to Will. Out to black sea. The indiscernible horizon. “It’s terrifying.”

“I like the openness.” Will, truthful but feigned casualty. “It’s easier to breathe out here.”

“It’s the nothingness that gets to me. The solitude of it.” Another sigh. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Will. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be out here by yourself.”

“It’s not so bad, actually.” Will stood, moved a foot closer to Hannibal, sat again. Leaned against his shoulder. “It was actually kind of nice the last time I did this.”

Hannibal looked down at Will. “Last time?”

Head off his shoulder. A quizzical look on his face. “Yes, when I sailed to you in Italy.”

Hannibal’s eyes bright against the faint Atlantic moonlight. Tender. “I never knew.”

A soft, petal breath. “Oh.”

An eternity of a pause.

“You didn’t find yourself lonely during your journey?”

Will pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “No, not really.” Curled his frozen toes. “I wasn’t entirely alone.”

Without warning, a thick, acidic bile taste rose in the back of his throat. Words bitter before he said them. They stuck in his mouth, sitting on the back of his tongue, a pill that wouldn’t go down. Gagging. He thought about swallowing them, but they were choking him. He needed them out.

“I had Abigail.”

She sat on the edge of the cabin a lot. On the stair, back against the doorway. She’d disappear for hours at a time, but she’d always come back. Hanging on the sails. Sitting at the helm. Wide eyes. Hair wrapped around her face in the wind. Impossible smile. Eager to help trim the sails and track the winds. Her mouth would move and words would sound, echoed, in Will’s head, not his ears. Now and then a drop of blood would seep through the scarf around her neck and Will would turn and look away, try to force air back into his lungs.

He looked up and saw her, now, in the form of a faint outline, a space where something should be, but wasn’t. A shadow against the nothingness, legs kicked over the side of the deck, leaning against the life rail. He couldn’t see her eyes now like he could see them then. A sharp hotness behind his eyes and his throat constricted. Vision blurred. Wet. Will turned to face away from Hannibal. Fixed his eyes on the light coming from the window of the cabin.

Hannibal, beside him, sat still. Stone.

“You know,” Will stood. The moon slid behind another cloud and the deck was again shrouded in darkness. He walked away from Hannibal, towards the entrance to the cabin. Couldn’t look at him. Spoke over his shoulder. “Maybe you should sleep somewhere else tonight.”


	6. Harbor

It was hard to believe that this was their home. Will, teetering on the brink of consciousness, silk sheets gliding against skin, rolling over in bed. It could have absorbed him entirely and he would be content. Eyes fluttered to meet the morning and Hannibal was not there. Onto his back once more, one arm raised above his head, heavy eyelids sliding closed. Everything was warm. Faint sounds of the city drifted into the bedroom, muffled and far away. Will sat up, stretched out, sheets falling around thighs.

The Atlantic, vast, shimmering, outside the window across the room. Something about the extravagance was amusing. Will exhaled, mouth melting into a sleepy smile.

It would take some getting used to, he imagined. Standing under the showerhead, a sleek glass stall that Will guessed could fit 6 or 7 people. Heated tile flooring. A mirror for a wall. Polished silver finishes. He stared at himself, beads of water rolling down his arms, his sides. They’d been there four days now. _No amount of time is going to get me used to this._ He stepped off the tile, onto a bath mat, looked around on the wall for the ‘off’ switch to the heated floors. Some of the more elaborate touches to the apartment were simply, he concluded, too much. Too excessive. 

Will, towel tucked into itself, hanging off his hipbones, in the kitchen. Sleek gray granite, black cabinets, white and silver accents. A large island, an ornate oven, a wine fridge, a walk in pantry. It was no wonder why Hannibal picked this place. The kitchen sat just off the front hallway, in the corner of the open, oversized apartment. A few ornate pieces of furniture, bookshelves, in front of a small fireplace in the opposite corner, near the dining table, chairs brilliantly white, stark against the dark hardwood floors. Sun streamed in from the balcony off their sunken living room. Polished, angular, modern. Will had commented, on their first day there, that it didn’t seem much like Hannibal’s style, and Hannibal responded by leading him out onto the balcony.

 _“Ah. I see.”_

Large, weathered granite of the building framed the sliding glass door that Will stepped through, onto sleek sandstone tile. Vines carved out of stone wrapped around the waist-high railing at the edge of the balcony. Actual vines, crawling up the granite, around their corner of the building, twitched in the breeze. Plants held up in decorative pots by small marble pillars. Sharp wooden furniture. Shining glass accents. An intricately beautiful grandiosity to it all.

A wealthy couple, Hannibal had explained, bought the apartment in its entirety ten years prior as a vacation property, and had used it only twice since. Will wondered aloud how Hannibal could know for sure that they wouldn’t choose this year to come back. Hannibal was far too gleeful in admitting that he didn’t, in fact, have any idea. That didn’t help Will’s nerves. Nor did the fact that they had entered so casually, suitcases in hand, stopping to introducing themselves to another tenant they’d run into on the way.

He felt a similar uneasiness that morning as he stepped, barefoot, onto the balcony and into the beating sun. Oddly warm for so early in the year. Sandstone hot underneath his feet. Hair dripping onto his shoulders. Fingers fidgeting with his towel.

“Good morning, Will.”

“Morning.”

Hannibal sat on the long wooden bench against the wall at the beginning of their balcony. Pressed a mug of coffee into Will’s hands as he approached. Will took it silently. Did not sit. His sips, hesitant. Hannibal must have noticed his eyes darting in the direction of the city, visible a few miles down the shore, slightly inland. Three stories below, the street hummed with the murmur of the morning commute. Cyclists weaving through people, accompanied by the occasional motorcycle or scooter. Footsteps and conversations. All of it so close. Too close.

“No one is looking for us, Will.” Hannibal. Loud. Comfortable. “Especially not here.”

He knew Hannibal was right. Months-dead. Old news, from the east coast of a country that no one here seemed to care too much about. Still, the jump from a single secluded cabin to an apartment in a city of a quarter of a million people seemed a bit extreme.

Coffee searing against the back of Will’s tongue. “I know. It’s just…”

“Having trouble adjusting?”

Will didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the buildings that lined the shore, leading towards the city.

“Are you feeling… alright?”

Smile disappeared. Will’s concussion, he knew, was undoubtedly part of his uneasiness. Headache never really leaving, washing over him in waves. “I’ve still got that headache.” A less-scalding sip. He sat on the bench next to Hannibal. “Better than yesterday, though.” 

Hannibal, trained eyes on Will’s face, looking for something in the creases. Will glanced up at him through stray strands of hair. “It’s just the headache. I promise.”

He wanted to move closer to Hannibal. Ignore the fact that his hair was soaking wet and lean against his shoulder. Feel it rise and fall with gentle breaths. But he didn’t. Something rooted him to where he sat, clutching at his ankles and calves, winding up his waist, his torso, reminding him not to move.

“I’m…” Shoulders heavy, stomach sinking. “I’m going to go get dressed.”

Clothes uncomfortable on his skin. Hannibal left to shop, asked if Will wanted to go, but he declined. The apartment felt bigger without Hannibal in it. Will paced the length of it once or twice, eyes fixed on the Atlantic. Thinking quick and frantic thoughts about nothing. Fingers twitching. Decided to leave.

Will kept his chin tucked down towards his chest, eyes pointed at the ground, as he walked. Believed entirely what Hannibal said – nobody was looking for them. But the constant and intrusive thought that someone might recognize him, and everything would topple around him, was incessant and overwhelming. All the same, there was something welcoming about the murmur of civilization. A young woman, dark hair and deep eyes, smiled at him from the open window of the office at the entrance to the marina, and suddenly the sun was warmer and the day brighter. He hadn’t been smiled at by anyone but Hannibal in months. He returned the smile, sheepishly wide. A cool breeze shifted his hair around his ears.

He had planned, initially, just to check on the ship, then to go into the city, acclimate himself to his surroundings. But once he felt the deck under his feet, he surrendered himself to his body, acting independently of his mind. Raising the sails. Watching how they moved in the wind. Eyeing the currents.

Half a mile or so off shore. Releasing the break, slowly paying out the anchor chain as the boat drifted gently backwards. Backing down with the engine, attaching the anchor line to the cleat. The boat stopped drifting. Rocked gently in place.

It was, admittedly, a gloriously beautiful day. The sky a vivid, storybook blue, clouds cartoonishly white and soft. The sun, bright white, just below the top of the sky. A trickle of a breeze against his warmed skin. Will sat near the bow of the ship, squinting slightly in the sun. He could, if he looked hard enough, make out the edge of the cluster of buildings where their apartment was. Eyes scanning back and forth along the shore. The heart of the city sat, large and inviting, what looked to be a few miles down the shore from the apartment. It really was a beautiful city. He wondered why Hannibal had picked it.

The breeze picked up and Molly tilted a bit to the left. Will stuck his hands out, balanced himself, palms against the deck until the breeze dried down. Funny, he thought, to want to be back out on the ship after just having left it. But things felt different out here on the sea. Quieter. Easier to breathe in the open air. He could release the thoughts that were too big for himself, watch them float away from him, towards the vast expanse of turquoise above and below.

The clouds seemed to avoid the sun, so Will stood and found his way into the cabin in search of sunscreen. His eyes landed on the armchair by the door of the cabin and a small pinching in his chest made him turn his head away. There was still a small indentation there from Hannibal, where he had curled up and slept the last 3 nights of their voyage. His back was still recovering. Sunscreen tight in Will’s fist. Wished he had just risked the sunburn.

Will had been sleeping on the far side of the bed since their arrival in Spain, leaving room in the middle of the bed for the ghost of Abigail. The emptiness at the pit of his stomach gnawing at him with dull and jagged teeth, leaving him red, raw, covered in bite marks that itched whenever Hannibal got too close.

Sunscreen in his palms, gliding over his forearms. Will wondered if he’d been too hostile recently. Blamed his behavior, partially, on the headaches from his concussion. Thought about it and realized he hadn’t touched Hannibal once since that night. The thing gnawing at him bit down and did not let go. Lost in unknowing, unsure if he felt so terribly because of the distance between them, or if it was the distance itself that made him feel terrible. Sunscreen on the side of his neck now, chemical smell singing his nose.

He couldn’t quite reach all of his back. If Hannibal was here... And then he was, palms working in wide circles, fingers pressing into Will’s sides. Will closed his eyes and breathed in the daydream. The gnawing in his stomach stopped and the sun shone warmer. Didn’t realize, at first, that he was smiling.

Sun at the beginning of its slow descent, still high in the sky. Will wondered what Hannibal was doing, right then, at that moment. If he too watched the sun and the clouds. If he was thinking of him. The gnawing faded to a dull ache. Surprising how much he missed him, having seen him just an hour or so ago. A breeze picked up, the sun ducked behind a cloud, and the ache worsened, Will realizing that his first want in the chill was to be beside Hannibal for warmth.

_Oh._

The moment was small. Smaller than Will expected. Quiet too. The realization, a soft and pleasant peace.

Glanced at the sun as it slid into blue once more, out from behind a cloud. It had barely been an hour or two, but he knew he needed to go back, suddenly, overwhelmingly certain.

Then he woke up.

Will’s entire body ached. Tense and cold. Head pounding. Heavy eyelids forced open to meet a black sky, a bright moon.

_Shit._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Hannibal woke that morning and found Will had drifted in his sleep. Inches away, far side of the mattress, on his side. Sheets draped over his waist, sun against his back. Hannibal’s eyes rested on the scar on Will’s shoulder. He slid closer. Rested his forearm on Will’s side, hand draped down, fingers against his chest. Lips above his ear.

“Good morning.” 

Will’s eyes shut tighter. “Mmm.”

Muscle sliding under skin, and through his arm Hannibal could feel Will tensing against him. Suddenly the morning felt less inviting. Hues in the air changing from warm sepia tones to desaturated blues.

_Still, then._

Hannibal withdrew his arm.

Will hadn’t been entirely present, not since the mention of Abigail on their journey here. The way he sat, the way his eyes wandered, never quiet settling on Hannibal’s. The cadence of his words and the twitches in his fingers. He insisted that he was not upset. Hannibal couldn’t help but be reminded of a Will who had murdered Freddie Lounds, a Will who would run away with him and Abigail to Italy. Hannibal could feel this Will, like that Will, pulling away, quick and gentle tugs.

But Will insisted he was fine. So Hannibal, though every part of him screamed not to, ignored the tugs. Acknowledge them, and they would strengthen. He’d approach the distance between them when things settled. _If they settle._

Will insisted again, on the balcony, when Hannibal pressed a mug into his sleepy hands and asked if he was alright. “I’ve still got that headache.” Towel around his waist. Droplets rolling over his collarbone. Eyes narrowed against the sun.

Hannibal wasn’t sure about the words. But Will glanced upwards at him from beneath tired eyelids, dark lashes, earnest and whole, agonizingly blue. “It’s just the headache. I promise.” The tugging quieted, and Hannibal felt himself reluctantly settling into the fact that Will was here. Will was genuine. Still, he was unable to settle in entirely. All he wanted was Will’s head on his shoulder, damp from the shower. He shifted, almost imperceptibly, closer. Offering. An unformed question turned in his stomach. Will, in turn, didn’t move closer. The space on the bench next to Hannibal ached against his side when Will left it to go change into his clothes.

The streets here were busy and Hannibal loved it. A stark and welcome contrast to the gloomy isolation their cabin brought. He weaved in and out of people, early afternoon sun beating down on his shoulders, heating cobblestone beneath his feet. The murmur of conversation. Footsteps. Atlantic lapping at the edges of the docks next to the street. Hannibal closed his eyes. Inhaled. It smelled different than the last time he was here. That was to be expected, though. This was a different Spain. He, a different man.

Will wasn’t at the apartment when Hannibal returned. He placed the groceries he’d purchased on the kitchen island. Wine in the wine fridge, food in the pantry. The sun inched towards the horizon. He read, for a while, stretched across the couch near the door to the balcony. Halfway through the book. Purples fading fast to pinks. Hannibal, upright on the couch, thumb as a bookmark, staring blank to the sea. _It can’t have been that long._ Sun perched atop the horizon. _Can it?_ Pinks to oranges. Hannibal stood in the doorway of the balcony. A slice of the sun below the horizon now, and the oranges grew deeper. He thought he might cook to distract himself. Eyes scanning the apartment for a note Will might have left.

Sauce of ginger, chile, lime, gochugaru. Chilled while he prepared the rest. Gripped the octopus by its head, tentacles curling in the boiling water. Oil. Salt. Pepper. Yogurt across the plate - two plates. Hannibal ate one, the other grew cold. Each bite harder and harder to swallow. He tapped his knife against his plate. Forced himself to breathe through his nose. Conscious inhales and timed exhales. Twitching at the sound of their downstairs neighbor unlocking their door.

There were significantly fewer people on the street, now that it was getting dark. Hannibal walked quickly, footsteps matching heartbeat, both steadily increasing. Past the complexes. The restaurants. The tiny rows of shops. A marina, large ships, wealthy families. Another, smaller marina, then another, smaller still. He turned into the third. Dusk air warm and thick, but just underneath his skin, he was sickeningly cold.

A patch of empty water, at the end of the fourth pier, where Molly had been docked just this morning, and Hannibal tried not to fall as the world was pulled from under his feet. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Will pushed himself up off the deck, stiff, into a sitting position. Eyes sliding in and out of focus, adjusting in the dark. A thick haze filled his head. Exhausting. The warmth of the day had left with the sun and Will tucked his arms against his chest. _Did I fall asleep?_ Huffing away the cold. _How long have I…?_ Tongue felt too big for his mouth. Tips of his fingers tingling. An uneasily familiar sensation. He stood. Knees cracking. Raised the anchor with tired and heavy arms.

The young woman who smiled at him earlier stood at the edge of the pier as he pulled Molly in to dock. She watched him as he worked to secure the ship.

“Es peligroso estar en el agua tan tarde por la noche.”

Tightening the knot. Rope rough in his palms. “Yo sé, lo siento. Accidentalmente quedé dormido.” Voice unexpectedly rough. He cleared his throat. Jumped with a thud onto the dock.

“Estás bien?”

Will looked to her. Dark eyes wide, a ghost of a frown, genuine concern.

“Si. Gracias.”

Will’s body knew the way home but his mind lagged a few steps behind. Moonlight illuminated street. He passed no one. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t quite paying attention. Not entirely present. Hard to see through the haze. The scene that met him as he entered the apartment, though, forced his mind back to his body, cleared the fog.

Hannibal kneeled in the living room. Small trash bin in one hand, surrounded by a sea of shattered glass. Light bouncing off small shards like diamonds, a beautiful shimmering portrait of catastrophe.

“Oh my god,” Will, at Hannibal’s side in an instant, hand on his shoulder, half kneeling next to him. “What happened?” Three fingers dripping with scarlet.

“I seem to have cut myself.” Hannibal, not answering the question. Off. Words slipping clumsily off his tongue.

Will took Hannibal’s hand in his own. Turned it over. Tiny slices along the pads of his fingers, blood dark and beading. “Doesn’t look too bad.” Hand again on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Here.” Pulled him into a standing position. Hannibal tilted as he stood. Grabbed both of Will’s shoulders. Stood square in front of him. Redness under his eyes.

Will didn’t have to ask but did anyway. “Are you drunk?” 

Hannibal, again, didn’t answer. “You left.”

Will’s hands on Hannibal’s elbows. A tense, steadying grip. “I went out on the boat. I needed to clear my head.” Hannibal’s hands moved to Will’s face, palms fiercely tight against cheekbones.

“I…” Gazed dropped to Will’s mouth. “I thought you’d gone.”

“No, I-” Will realized. An overwhelming chill at the base of his skull, spreading atop his shoulders. “You – no,” Tongue tripping over words. “You thought I’d… _gone_?”

Hannibal nodded. Thumb pressing at the corner of Will’s eye.

“So you…” Will trailed off. The shards of clear and green glass strewn around them. “You broke… a wine bottle?”

“Two.” A shadow of embarrassment fell across Hannibal’s brow. He turned away from Will, letting his hands fall to his sides. 

“After drinking them, I assume?”

Head dipped down, hair falling over his forehead. “Yes. I’ll clean them, it’s just my hands…” Balled into fists. “I’m sorry.” Certain syllables drawn out a bit too long, faint traces of wine in each word.

Will’s chest filled, heavy, hot. A clutching at his ribs, scratching the walls. “No, no, don’t-” Breathing away an ache not unlike the one he felt on the deck of the ship earlier in the day. “ _I’m_ sorry. I anchored the ship and accidentally fell asleep.” He stepped forward. “I would never...” His own hand on Hannibal’s face now. “I’m not going to leave you.”

Hannibal looked up to meet Will’s gaze and Will did everything he could not to fall apart then and there. Turned away to stare at anywhere but Hannibal.

“Sit.” Hoping Hannibal didn’t notice the slight crack in his voice.

Silence but for the soft melodic chimes of glass against stone floor. Odd how such small sounds seemed to echo throughout the enormous space. Hannibal sat back on the couch, bloody fingers and drunkenly secured bandages tucked into his palms, watching silently as Will swept. Large amounts of glass, no liquid. Will wondered if Hannibal drank them both and then threw them, or if he’d done so one at a time. Knuckles tightening around the handle of the broom. _This is my fault._ Sideways glances at Hannibal. Imagining the glass connecting with the wall. Splintering. Floating, slow, in every direction. The stem slipping out of Hannibal’s hand and the rage and heartbreak across his face. Will stopped sweeping. Stood straight. Still.

Hannibal spoke first. “I have to say, I’m quite embarrassed.”

“If it makes you feel better, if I thought you’d left me, I’d probably do the same thing.” Broom in hand, he began to walk towards the kitchen.

“You would?”

Will stopped, turned. Hannibal, twisted around on the couch, arm draped over the back, eyes sharp but unfocused.

“Yes.”

There was something about Hannibal’s vulnerability. The back of Will’s neck tingled, fingers twitched. He _needed_ to touch him. Didn’t know if he could. Broom propped up against the kitchen corner. Snatching a wine bottle off the middle of the island. Will marched back to the living room, sat on the couch, cross legged, next to Hannibal. Fought the cork out of the bottle and took a large swig.

“What are you doing?”

“You said you had two bottles. I’m catching up.”

Hannibal’s eyes grew wide with a different sort of fear. “Will, that is a Gran Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon. It has to breathe after opening. Let me get the decanter.” He spoke as though they’d committed a despicable crime.

Wine spilling into Will’s mouth, pressing a smile against the lip of the bottle. “It’s fine. I like it how it is.” Rotating his wrist, dark wine swirling around inside. “Plus,” Lips against glass. He tilted it back and took another sizeable swig. “It’s more fun this way.”

Hannibal considered the words for a moment, eyes landing on Will but looking somewhere further away. Will tilted the bottle again, drinking rapidly, a rushed attempt to quiet the fidgeting he felt underneath his skin. 

“I’ve always loved that about you, Will.” Hannibal spoke softer now, some level of drunken casualty, permeated by a more serious edge.

Hot underneath his shirt collar. Will shifted on the couch, moved closer. More wine to fill the pause.

“Your ability to succumb to spontaneity.” Eyes on the bottle. Then Will’s face. “You give yourself entirely to a moment, letting it take hold of you without thought or calculation. You revel in the thrill of the unconscious decision. Primal and passionate.”

The wine, notes of cherry and chocolate, on the back of Will’s tongue. Locked onto Hannibal as he drank. 

“That being said…” He sat back, then forward, palms pressed against his knees as he stood. “I really must insist on getting you at _least_ a glass.” 

“No, no, wait-” Will uncharacteristic, tilted the bottle vertically. Drank the last of it, about a glass or two, in a few enormous gulps.

Hannibal had never looked more horrified. 

“Done.” Will stood as well, a bit too fast, bubbling of the wine sloshing around in his skull. 

“Wow.” He blinked. “Stronger than I expected.” Eyebrows raised at himself as he took a slight misstep, one palm extended to balance himself.

“More expensive than you probably expect, too.”

Will did not try to hide his childish smile. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

The buzz from the alcohol, his ability to succumb to a moment, or the way the moonlight streamed in from the balcony and hit the side of Hannibal’s face. Will didn’t know what it was that magnetized himself to Hannibal. Moving so that he stood directly in front of him. Began to steer the conversation towards where he needed it to go. Where he knew Hannibal needed it to go.

“I really am sorry, Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s shoulders moved in the satisfied way they did whenever Will said his name.

“I didn’t want to make you worry.” Reaching out. Hannibal’s hand in his own. He turned it over, eyes tracing the creases. Running his fingers over the caked and crumbling blood on Hannibal’s palm. “I know I’ve been… distant.” Standing close enough to hear Hannibal’s soft bursts of breath. Heartbeat rapid in his wrist underneath the pads of Will’s fingers. “It’s like you said, I don’t adjust well. My thoughts are too… large for my skull. Too opaque. Like a thick fog I can’t see through.” Fingers tucking bandages tighter around cuts. Pink stains on white cotton turning darker red. “It’s like I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe.”

He brought Hannibal’s other hand into his own. Held them both. Remembered the quiet moment on the boat earlier today. Clung to the realization.

“I’ve spent most of the time we’ve known each other thinking you brought the fog. That it was your fault, and by your singular doing, that I was suffocating in it.” He lifted Hannibal’s hands to his face. Tilted his head. Pressed his mouth to Hannibal’s knuckles with closed eyes. “But I know now,” Lips soft and light, brushing against each finger. “You don’t bring the fog. You dispel it.” The bandages rough against his lips. “It disappears and leaves a clarity that I’m… not used to. I’ve been living my whole life in the fog, so… I don’t know what that clarity is. I don’t know how to define it, or how to live in it. So I pull away. Retreat into the familiarity of unknowing.”

Will, head still bent, looked up to Hannibal, who stood, shoulders slumped, eyes wet. Fingers woven between bandages. “I’m not retreating anymore.”

He leaned in. Felt Hannibal’s breath hot against his lips. 

And just before they touched, Hannibal pulled his fingers from Will’s hand, placed a gentle palm on his chest, pushed him away.

“I don’t…” He stopped, a heavy breath. Will only now noticing his heart slamming against his ribcage. “I don’t want drunk or empty intimacy, Will.” Eyes darting rapidly between Will’s. “I don’t want to take advantage. I only want this if it is real, if this is truly you speaking to me, here and now and present.”

Pulse screeching to a stop and Will felt as though his chest might burst.

“You _really_ love me, don’t you?”

Hannibal’s whispered response. “Yes. I do.”

“Then you’ll know,” Will, so close, feet tangled with Hannibal’s. “This isn’t drunk or empty. Well. Not empty at least.”

They both smiled, laughter like feathery bursts of air.

“I’m trying, poorly, to…to tell you…” Will raised his face. Tip of his nose atoms from Hannibal’s.

“I love you, Hannibal.” And though he stood up straight, Will felt Hannibal’s whole being collapse against him. “I _really_ do. I love you, I-” Cut himself short to press his lips, himself, to Hannibal. Hearts straining through tissue, beating through the walls, off each other. He slipped an arm around Hannibal’s waist and pulled him in. Teeth hard against his lips against Hannibal’s, nose pressed into his cheek.

Lips parted. Hannibal’s tongue tasted of oak and blackberries. Will scraped the top of it lightly with his teeth. Hannibal’s hand under Will’s arm, sliding up his back, gripping the base of Will’s skull tight and pressing their lips harder together, his tongue farther into Will’s mouth. Laden breathing through nostrils. Almost panicked. Desperate. Hungry.

And then Hannibal pulled himself away and pressed Will’s head against the crook of his shoulder. Wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. Will went slack in Hannibal’s arms as the weight he carried with him disappeared, curling away into the air like smoke. Clarity with the absence of fog, bright, ringing in Will’s ears. 

It rang, still, in the shower, minutes after their reluctantly broken embrace. Heat from the water soaking deep into Will’s skin, warming him to the bone. He closed his eyes, face in the stream, water rolling off his brows, clinging to his lashes. Even the cool tile felt warm against his feet. Wine in his blood pumping around his body, rocking him gently, side to side. He raised a hand to his mouth. Ran his thumb along his lips. Pressed his fingers to them and imagined they were Hannibal’s lips, pushed viciously against him.

The confession had been the plan. The kiss, an expected response. And though it was fulfilling and he felt as though his heart would beat itself to breaking, some small piece of Will felt unsatisfied. The pit of his stomach still gnawing at itself. 

Will knew what he wanted. Blood shifting to different parts of him. He tilted his head back, water pounding against the curve of his throat. He’d left the bathroom door open deliberately. Tired of waiting for himself to muster up the courage. Waited, instead, for Hannibal to make his own move.

Hannibal’s footsteps were soft underneath the roaring of the shower, but Will heard them, which meant he’d intended them to be heard. Still, he kept his eyes closed, face under the showerhead. Pushed the hair out of his face. A few seconds of feigned ignorance. Finally he turned. Hannibal leaned against the doorway to their bedroom. Staring. A darkness behind eager eyes. Will stood, exposed. Half hard. Stepped towards the side of the shower in silent invitation. Hannibal began to undress. Will watched. Eyes mirroring Hannibal’s.

He’d seen Hannibal undressed before but there was something about the night that gave his arms, his chest, a different kind of lean and powerful sheen. The gnawing grew painful. Chest tightening when Will realized he'd never seen him _entirely_ undressed. Underwear kicked aside. Silk. _Of course._ Will tried to suck in air but felt like he’d breathed none. He grew harder unexpectedly fast. 

And then Hannibal was in the shower. Gliding towards him. Warm skin slick against warm skin. Will took his face into his hands, initiated this kiss as well, forgetting to breathe, trapping water between their lips. A chill between them when they pulled apart.

“You love me.” Hannibal. A question, not a statement. Whispered against Will’s lips.

“Yes.”

Will’s arms curled up, hands gripping the backs of Hannibal’s shoulders, running down the length of his arms, moving to his stomach, his waist, his hips, traveling down his thighs. Every part of him. _God._ Head rushing. It felt so good to finally touch him. To allow himself. Hannibal’s arm slipped around Will’s waist, pulling him in, pressing against him, water pouring over their backs, sealing them together. Will felt Hannibal’s cock near his thigh. Turned away from it but did not pull away entirely. Pressed his back to Hannibal’s torso. Will's hands trailing down his stomach, lingering at the horizontal scar, the base of his shaft.

Will felt, in his back, the rumbling in Hannibal’s chest. Voice deep.

“Say it.” Lips at his ear. Breath hotter than the scalding water.

“I love you.”

Hannibal, hard, at the small of his back. His tailbone. Will pressed against it. Grew along with it. Hannibal’s hands were on his sides now, running from chest to waist, gripping at his thighs, fingers dug into flesh.

“Again.”

Head to the side, Hannibal’s hunger in his periphery. Will's hand wrapped around himself now. Flushed and swelling in his fist. “I love you.” Alternating words and heavy breaths. Water rolled off the head of his cock, sending a shiver into his abdomen. Hannibal reached for it, fingers barely grazing it before Will pushed them gently away.

“No…” Eyes closed. Chest heaving. He bucked his hips, forward, away from Hannibal’s, but leaned, shoulder blades harder against his torso. Neck rolling backwards, head resting on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Not yet.” _Soon._ Hannibal had waited this long and he could wait just moments longer. Will wanted him, a puddle at his feet. Drunk off not wine but on the hold he had on the man behind him. He stroked himself slowly. Hannibal’s shoulders went rigid and Will’s body surged. Right now, Hannibal was his.

“Will.” Hannibal’s aching _‘Don’t.’_

Will’s head rolled to the side. “Not yet.” Pressed his lips to Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal responded in kind, shifting his shoulder so Will’s own neck would arch further back, pressing his lips to the front of Will’s throat. Sucking. Dragging his teeth along wet skin. Will moved his hands along himself faster now, running his thumb over the slit. Swore he could feel Hannibal shaking. Choked as Hannibal’s mouth found his, tongue forced its way towards his throat.

Will bit down on a moan. Hannibal’s hands on his hipbones like fire, and he could not take it any more. He spun Will around, pressed an angry kiss to the side of his mouth, his jaw, his neck. Forced him against the glass, hitting his head. Hannibal’s hands on his shoulders, moving down his arms, his hips, felt Hannibal’s lips on his chest, his stomach, his – _oh god_

“ _Ahh_ \- fuck-”

Will gripped Hannibal’s shoulder, fingernails piercing skin, his head, hair clutched between his fingers. Hannibal’s mouth around him, tongue on the head of his cock and his whole body went slack, knees quaking beneath him. He reached out to the side and grabbed at nothing, pressing his head against the glass.

“Jesus-” Mouth wide in a gasp, water splashing off his face. Shocked he hadn’t collapsed. Body pulsing with his heartbeat, the rhythm of Hannibal’s mouth. 

“I’m…I,” Head rolled forward. “H…Hannibal, I-” Hair hanging down off his forehead. Water rushing over his eyelids. “I’m close, I-”

Hannibal didn’t stop. Gave no indication of stopping. Will opened his eyes, saw Hannibal kneeled on the tile, free hand working at himself, long rhythmic strokes.

“F- _fuck-_ ”

Will, hand trembling, grabbed the back of Hannibal’s head to pull it away. Hannibal gripped side of Will’s waist, took Will deeper into his mouth, eyes flicking upwards. Starved. Horrifying.

Will caught flame. Steadied himself on Hannibal’s shoulders as his body convulsed with the force of the release. Raw inside Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal held him there as he finished himself off as well, seconds later, rolling his head to one side, breath heavy against Will, palm against the glass.

He let Will fall gently from him. Swallowed as he stood. Pressed his face to the side of Will’s neck. Panting heavily over the water.

Towel-dried hair still damp atop silk pillows. Soft Atlantic moonlight pouring across their bodies from their picturesque window by the bed.

Hannibal and Will, awake, aware, alive. Facing each other, unblinking. Seeing. Knowing.

“You taste sweeter than I expected.”

“You,” Will laughed softly. “Are obnoxiously well endowed.” Hannibal’s eyes creased into a smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be, but of course…” Will trailed off. Wine making his eyelids heavy. Hannibal’s thumb rested where his ear met his cheek.

Limbs woven together. Fingers drifting over skin. Breathing each other in. Hannibal's lips at his forehead, breath against his brow. Eyes opening less and less with each blink.

Sinking slowly.

Slurred speech.

“Goodnight Hannibal.”

“Goodnight, sweet Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this took so long to post. I was graduating/moving. I'm still in the process of moving actually, so this chapter has been a bit of a struggle. There are a lot of things with this chapter I'm not entirely happy with, and I apologize for that! I had to restructure things a bit. This chapter originally had an entire second half that I'm just going to make into its own chapter seven. I'm still not confident in what I decided, but, eh, you know. Gotta post it sometime!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed a bit of a happier chapter!


	7. Mooring

Grime and slick oil blackened the tips of his fingers. Scraping away at the gasket with a small razor. Wiping down the driveshaft. _Nobody ever cleans these right._ Reaching behind him and scrunching the rag in his back pocket with his fingers, dabbing away excess grease. 

It was unbearably hot, which was expected of midsummer Spain, but that didn’t stop Will from mumbling angrily about the heat under his breath as he worked. _I’m going to die out here._ He pressed his hand under the mess of hair stuck to his brow, wiped away few beads of sweat, leaving a streak of oil across his forehead Tugged at the front of his collar a few times to try and get some air. The breeze picked up as he walked down the pier and back towards the office, rippling through the sails of the boats as he walked by. He closed his eyes, grateful for the temporary relief from the beating sun.

The office, which was essentially just a tiny shack, was impossibly stuffy, despite being next to the sea and having large openings in place of windows on two sides. He situated himself in front of the small fan in the corner in an attempt to cool down. Still too hot, but an improvement nonetheless. He snatched a bottle of water from the tiny fridge under the counter and considered, momentarily, pouring it over himself, before drinking. Will propped his elbows on the counter, hunched over, water in hand. Took a moment to breathe. Watch the people wandering by.

There was a man who frequented the dock. Brown skin darkened by the sun, sleek black hair. Older than he looked, dressed in the slacks and sweaters of a person who wanted to give off the appearance of wealth when it didn’t necessarily exist. Will knew he couldn’t have been that wealthy, he was visiting _this_ dock after all, as opposed to one of the nicer marinas closer to the city, where the well-to-dos kept their boats. But still, about twice a week, he’d come strolling off the path of the main road, towards the tiny office, a forced leisurely stride. Whenever he spotted Will alone, he’d pretend to observe some of the ships before turning on his heel and leaving. But whenever Will was working with his only coworker – the young woman he’d met at this dock before – the man would linger. Occasionally coming up to the office. Leaning in the opening. Talking to her in a low voice, not knowing Will could understand him. Isela could have told him, but she never did.

The breeze picked up again and Will leaned farther out the window to feel it against his skin. Watched as Isela and the man walked closer and closer, slow, eyes on the ground in front of them, mouths moving in quiet conversation. They parted at the edge of one of the piers, a quick and furtive kiss. Will tossed a water bottle to Isela through the window as she walked towards the door. Picked up a pencil and the logbook to look busy.

“I don’t think he likes me.”

Isela shut the door behind her, walking over to the window where Will sat, a quick wave and a smile towards the man as he left. “Sí?”

“Si. Él, uh,” Will frowned. Pencil against paper, eraser tapping against the page in thought. “Como se dice ‘gave a look’?”

Eyes still on the man. “Echa un vistazo.” She turned, tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “And you’re right. He doesn’t like you.”

“Oh, well then.” Eyebrows raised, a small laugh. Isela returned the smile, bright, beautiful.

“He thinks you will take me from him.” Playful head tilted sideways.

“Well that’s not going to happen. Lo prometo.”

“I know that.” Her small hand on Will’s shoulder. A mocking cadence, as if she were letting him down gently. “You’re my friend. And you are too pale.”

“Si, y soy prometido.” Will played along, feigned a frown. “Y tienes veinte años. Soy demasiado viejo.”

Hand removed, spiteful, falling by her side. “Él es mas viejo.”

“I stand by what I said. You should find someone younger.”

“And you,” Wide eyes and impossible smile. She snatched the pencil and paper up from him. Work orders. “Should mind your own business, and get back to…” Pencil moving slowly down the paper, eyes trailing behind. “Dock four, spot C. The motor is still making that sound, they say.”

Will stood from the small stool on which he sat. “Por supuesto.” Snatched up the rusted toolbox from its place in the corner, walked out the door. “Inmediatamente, jefe.” Bit down on his tongue between his smile as he felt a crumpled up piece of paper bounce off the back of his head.

The temperature sank mercifully with the sun, and when blues turned to purples and clouds in feathery strokes dispersed across the horizon, Will left, giving a departing wave to Isela as he walked down the dock and past the office.

Returning the wave, leaning against the doorframe, she called to him. “Fishing tomorrow?”

“Si, if it’s not too hot.”

“Hace calor todos los dias, Graham.”

A smile, stepping off wooden dock and onto paved street, speaking over his shoulder, “Adiós.”

“Hasta mañana!”

The relief of the walk home lasted only briefly, soon permeated by a small and irritating pressure behind his eyes. Will pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, squinting away the dusk. The sharp brightness of the setting sun did nothing to help the lingering headaches from the end of his concussion. He focused on the wind, the sounds of the ocean, the smell drifting from the tiny row of cafes he passed. Hannibal’s motorcycle was parked at the edge of the alley next to their building.

“You’re home?” He called, closing the front door behind him, kicking off his shoes.

“Sorry?” Far away. Will walked into the kitchen and saw, through open glass doors, Hannibal kneeled over on the balcony. He stepped into their sunken living room, walked out onto the patio.

“I didn’t expect you to be home.”

Hannibal, crouched over a row of planters. “Not happy to see me?” Eyes on the leaves pinched between his fingers. Lifted a small bunch to his nose and inhaled. Made a slight face.

“Of course. I just thought you had that meeting tonight.” Will stood next to him. Hannibal tilted his head backwards to look up at Will, who bent over, pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

“It was moved to early tomorrow morning.” Hannibal, hands cupped together, cradling a tiny fistful of cilantro, stood up. “You’ve got grease all over your face, you know.”

“I guessed so, yeah.”

“Well, wash quickly.” Sidestepping Will, moving for the open door. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Halibut and cilantro ginger sauce on gleaming white plates with chilled wine. Will tilted the glass, cool liquid pouring over his tongue, the back of his throat. He raised an eyebrow towards the intensity with which Hannibal watched him drink.

“A sauvignon blanc. Aged in…” Another sip. Hannibal’s unblinking eyes. “…oak?”

Corners of Hannibal’s lips peaked into a smile.

“A little soft. Floral. I’m guessing California?”

“Perfect.” He looked positively gleeful. “You’re getting better.”

“I should hope so, what with you quizzing me all the time.” Will, placing the glass back on the table, slicing away at his fish wish polished silver.

Hannibal chewed his response, pursed lips, bright eyes.

Will stood over the sink, tilting dishes under a stream of warm water. Hannibal appeared, a breath behind him, placing another dish in the sink. Head lingered in the space above Will’s shoulder. Rested his chin there, hands tugged at the waistband of Will’s shirt, thumbs curled into fabric. Fingers sneaking underneath.

“Your hands are cold.”

Hannibal’s breath on his collarbone. Mouth wet where Will’s neck met his jaw. “Mhmm.”

Dish dropped gently against the bottom of the sink. Will tilted his head away from Hannibal, ear to his shoulder, exposing the side of his neck, the smooth inviting curve of his throat. He felt Hannibal’s teeth graze his skin. Closed his eyes and tried, really tried, to forget the world. But Hannibal slipped his hands under Will’s shirt and grasped his waist with stiff and frozen palms and Will shuddered uncomfortably.

“No…” An irritating edge to his voice. Stood up straighter and pushed Hannibal’s hands off him. “Seriously, your hands are freezing.”

Hannibal stood silent behind him a moment. A beat. “I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s ok.” An accidental snap in his voice. Will picked up the plate once more. Under the stream, washing off leftover bits of sauce. “It’s just distracting.”

Hannibal moved to Will’s side, leaning against the counter. “You seem very distracted as of late, Will.”

Air around them dimmed suddenly, as though something had passed in front of the sun. Their expressions shrouded. Will’s shadowed entirely.

“I feel like…” Absent minded, working a sponge around a plate but not really cleaning it. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. Like something is… wrong? Missing?”

Hannibal nodded slowly, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere above the horizon, out beyond their balcony. “I don’t mean to be crass,” speaking low. “But we’ve yet to become fully intimate with one another. Is it possible-?”

“No.” Hoped Hannibal didn’t notice just how quickly he had cut him off. “No, it’s not that. I don’t – it’s not that I don’t want – I don’t mean,” Stammering. Turned the water off. Turned to Hannibal. Wringing wet hands.

“It’s a feeling of…” Eyes wandering around the room. “Waiting for someone’s arrival. And they don’t come, and they don’t call, and you start to think about every manner of horrible things that could have happened to them.”

“A common form of anxiety.”

Will wondered if Hannibal had slipped into his Doctor Lecter voice consciously or unconsciously.

“Yes, but I’m not _worried,_ per say, about anything.” The pinching behind his eyes grew, and Will rolled his neck backwards, feeling the cracks down into his spine. “I feel like I’m… waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

And then there was a knife in his hand. Will turned it over. A glint off the blade even in the darkness of the room. Hilt white hot in his tense grip.

_“This.”_

One quick motion and the knife was inside Hannibal’s abdomen.

Blade pressed through skin and up to Will’s knuckles, wet with blood. He had to grip the hilt with both hands as he jerked it upwards, tearing through fabric and organ and flesh alike. Everything in the room gleamed white, ears rang, blood scraping along arteries underneath Will’s sandpaper skin. Hannibal’s eyes and mouth wide. Gasping for air but spitting up blood. Will’s face against Hannibal’s, lips against lips, blood staining teeth.

Sleep released its grip on Will’s throat and he sputtered, drawing desperate gasps of air. Hannibal stirred sleepily beside him.

“Hm… Will?”

Steady and deafening banging of his heart, his thoughts, in his ears, behind his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

Forcing air in and out. Rapid. Shallow. “Yeah. Yes. I’m ok.” He could feel, but not see his hands trembling in the blackness.

“A bad dream?”

Will nodded. Shifting, hasty, towards the middle of the bed, closer to Hannibal, who encircled him without word, without question, without thought. Will pressed a palm to Hannibal’s intact abdomen.

Holding him. “I’m here.” Warm mumbled words, drowsy against Will’s forehead.

Will lay, half awake in Hannibal’s arms until morning.

Soft blue light crept into their room and the morning came far cooler than expected. Dull white mist painted the city, the Atlantic, blending sea with sky. Will watched through the window, dark and low hanging clouds miles from the shore. He rolled from Hannibal’s arms and slipped out of bed.

He ate on the balcony. Poking at his over-cooked eggs, chewing far too long, staring at the encroaching storm. Fork limp in his hand, resting against the plate, most of his meal uneaten. The nightmare painted on the inside of his skull. Trapped all his thoughts inside.

The dishes from last night were still in the sink. Clean. There was no knife. Head aching behind his eyes. Will wondered how much of the conversation had been real. 

Hannibal woke, and Will thought to ask him. But a quick rehearsal of the conversation in his head went horribly wrong, so he sent Hannibal off to his morning meeting with a kiss on the cheek and a quiet “See you later.”

He spent the rest of the morning in a similar state. Dissociated. Wrists sore from leaning against the balcony for too long. Unsure of just how long he’d been standing out there, eyes as foggy as the horizon. Warm and humid air thick and uncomfortable on his forearms, the back of his neck. He decided, in a mediocre effort to take his mind off of things, to visit Isela at the docks, to let her know fishing probably wasn’t going to happen because of the oncoming storm.

Two blocks away and he could hear her yelling. Will picked up the pace but stopped once she came into view, standing outside the office, pointing angrily at that man, face red, mouth wide with anger. An awkward moment of deliberation before he turned and walked away, stopping at a café on the way back for a proper breakfast. 

He didn’t really eat that one either.

By the time Will got back to the apartment, the clouds had broached the store, air hung eerily still over the city. A faraway rumble of thunder and Will heard Hannibal’s motorcycle on the street below. Greeted him at the door with a kiss, Hannibal’s hand on the side of his neck.

“They’re remodeling the church, starting next week.”

Hannibal, two feet in front of him, and so far away. Will frowned. Hearing but not processing.

“We’ll have to find a new location for some of the study groups.” Hannibal’s tone was unusually delicate, which Will knew was never a good thing. Still he wasn’t quite present. The words made sense but the sentence did not.

Hannibal must have noticed the vast difference between the distance of their bodies and the distance of their eyes. A half step back. “Will… are you alright?”

Blinked slowly. “Yeah, I, uh.” Sighed. “I’m just tired. I didn’t really sleep, I think I’m going to nap.” Needed to get away.

Hannibal nodded. “I might join you. I’ve been looking to do some more reading, and after this morning I’d quite like to relax.”

Too tired to protest. “Relax? You mean watch me sleep?” Will, teasing words, attempting to chip away at his dissociation. He’d woken to Hannibal’s stare on more than one occasion.

Hannibal’s soft smile. “Perhaps.”

Will still felt the need to get away. But realized, once Hannibal crawled in bed and under the sheets, how desperately he actually wanted him there.

Hannibal propped himself up against the headboard. Will fit himself into the space beside him, tucked under his arm, head below Hannibal’s chin. Silent and complacent. Dipping under and above consciousness in rolling waves. A faraway rumble of thunder. The light tapping of rain against their window, the beginnings of the storm.

Hannibal’s book lay unopened on the nightstand. 

A few minutes of deliberation. Will decided he needed to.

“Do you ever…” Halfway through the sentence and he wished he hadn’t started. “…think about killing me?”

Behind his head he felt Hannibal’s breathing change. Will slid away from him, lying on his side, propped up on an elbow. Hannibal, still against the headboard, still looking out to sea.

A moment too long in thought and he began to regret asking. Then,

“Yes.” Hannibal looked to Will. “Though it is just that. Idle thought, with no intention behind it.”

Will stared. Chest stirring. Filling the few seconds of silence with measured breaths.

“I have no wish to see you dead, Will. That is the last thing I could want. I hope you know that.” Hannibal reached out, brushed a curl off of Will’s forehead to better see his face. “But I can’t deny the occasional nightmare, having spent so long in a certain frame of mind.”

Will could no longer look. His eyes dropped to a fold in the sheets against Hannibal’s waist, fixed themselves there. A handful of fabric between his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fist as Hannibal spoke.

“Is this question prompted by the nightmare you had last night?”

Will looked back up.

“Did you dream I killed you?”

Looked down again. Fought down his first instinct to lie. “No.” The words felt dry in his mouth. “I dreamt _I_ killed _you_.”

The etchings of a smile at the beginning of Hannibal’s mouth. Will released the sheets from his grasp. Smoothed them with his hand, intent in watching the way the folds cast their shadows. Hannibal slipped down against the headboard, settling near to Will, lying on his side next to him.

His voice a seductive hiss. “How?”

Will’s breath caught. Eyes flicked up to meet Hannibal’s gaze. Edacious. Frightening.

“I,” A clap of thunder. Storm breaching the shore now. Whispers. “I stabbed you with a knife.” Periphery fading out.

Hannibal closed his eyes. Shifted closer to Will. One hand sliding around his waist, sliding up his back, grabbing at the back of Will’s neck. The other disappeared under the sheets. Will watched as Hannibal’s hand slid down towards his waist, sleep delaying the realization.

“Oh my god,” Face twisted in disbelief. “ _Really?_ ”

Hannibal ignored him. “Tell me more about this dream.” Fingers running up the nape of Will’s neck, clutching at the back of his hair.

The way Hannibal’s shoulders loosened, the way he tilted his head at the sound of Will’s voice, the way his lips hung, parted slightly. Will’s cock twitched, reluctant, but eager.

“I gutted you. And I kissed you.” He leaned in. Noses touching, Will’s lips brushing against Hannibal’s as he spoke. “I licked the blood from your lips.” Hannibal’s chin trembling as he worked himself under the sheets. He spoke in a whispered stutter. 

“Should I be worried, Will?”

Something Will had buried deep began to stir. He gave in. “Why?” Arm sliding down. He gently moved Hannibal’s fingers away and took him into his hand. Leaned forward, the side of Hannibal’s face hot against his own. “Do you think I’m dangerous, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal let out a quiet, involuntary moan, throbbing underneath Will’s fingers, and Will felt a swift rush of blood that left his head tingling. Cock in his fist like the hilt of the knife and suddenly all he could see was the blood gushing from Hannibal’s torso. He removed his hand.

“Something wrong?”

Will shook his head. “N-no.” _Focus._ Hannibal’s fingers edged forward to help Will along.

“Let me.”

The dream slipped from Will’s head with each stroke of Hannibal’s hands, his breath, his lips, wet atop Will’s. The knife in his hand melted away, the dishes in the sink, the kitchen, the apartment. Everything in the world, gone, except for Hannibal. The way his cheekbone rolled off Will’s as he moved, nipping at Will’s ear, the way his fingers brushed against his sides as his shirt was pulled off over his head.

Hannibal tugged off his own shirt. Rolled over, on top of Will, pinned him down. His cock pressed to Will’s belly, Will’s pressed to his. Eyes closed. Spine curling, arching upwards, hips tight to Hannibal’s. Hannibal’s hands found Will’s waist, the small of his back, slipping underneath the waistline of his boxers, palming his ass.

Will’s eyes flew open. Hannibal’s face hung over him, reddened, hair hanging down off his head, disheveled.

They looked at each other, seconds unfolding like minutes.

Will gave a weak nod.

“Are you sure?”

Will ran his hands over the broad expanse of Hannibal’s chest. “Yes.”

Hannibal’s tongue crossed his bottom lip. “Turn over.”

Will did as instructed, Hannibal’s hands gripping his hips, pulling off fabric, guiding him. From behind him he heard a wet sucking noise, then, suddenly-

_“Oh!”_

“Are you alright?”

”Yeah that just-” Will tensed. Hannibal’s finger was cold. “-it feels…weird.”

“You need to relax. Before I can pen-”

“I swear to god,” Will closed his eyes, a heavy exhale through his nose. “I will never relax if you say the word ‘penetrate,’ Ok? I’m trying.” He shifted on the bed, trying to get more comfortable, to not focus on the sensation of Hannibal’s finger, now up to his knuckle.

“You’re not relaxed.”

Will huffed, “Well, maybe-” And then Hannibal took Will’s cock in hand and his muscles went slack. “Ok…” Nodding. “Ok, yeah. Keep going…”

Hannibal pressed his finger, then fingers, further into Will, tips brushing his prostate, light and gentle at first. Will fell loose against the sheets, quivering as Hannibal’s fingers worked their way around. The storm picked up, sudden and severe, drops battering glass like gunfire. Will bit down on his bottom lip. Squirmed underneath Hannibal, skin flushed, gasps catching in his throat with every movement of Hannibal’s fingers.

A warmth spread into his abdomen, Will could barely keep his head lifted off the pillow. “Hannibal-” Choking words through labored breaths. Right on the edge. “Stop – _ah, fuck_ – stop-” Balled up sheets in his fist. “Hannibal... you’re going to make me – _mmm_ – I’m going to come, I’m - ”

Hannibal’s words, hot breath against the back of his neck. “Is that not the goal?”

“I thought… you wanted to fuck me.”

Hannibal withdrew his fingers, Will’s shoulder blades squeezed together in want and desperation. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” 

Will tensed beneath Hannibal, relaxed, tensed again. Nodded, panting.

“Then say so.” He could feel the pulsing of blood in Hannibal’s cock against his ass. Will writhed beneath it, tried to press up into it, his own cock rigid, dripping.

“Hannibal, please-” Trembling. “This is just cruel.”

Hannibal’s lips wet and searing on Will’s neck, fingers brushing his cock, spreading precum with his thumb along the shaft. Will moaned into the pillow.

“Ok, ok…” Inhale. “I want you to fuck me, Hannibal.”

Voice a deep and sinister rumble. “Good boy.”

A spitting noise from behind him. Hannibal guided his cock inside Will, slow at first, then all at once.

Will’s sputtering gasp. _“Fuck!”_

Head tilting to the side, biting into his own arm. Hannibal momentarily let go of Will’s cock, grabbed a fistful of curls and yanked his head backwards, his face against Will’s, red, wet, lip curled into a snarl. His chest slid over Will’s back as he thrust, Will clenched around him. He let Will’s head fall, hair slipping through his fingers, gripped Will’s cock again. Slick, pulsing, dribbling over Hannibal’s fingers as he worked at it. A few slower pumps and then Hannibal rutting into Will, a weak yelp escaping Will’s throat. Hannibal against his prostate,

“Oh god – Hann - _oh_ – fuck-”

A clap of thunder.

Mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut. 

Wind howling along the window. 

Breathing in rhythm with Hannibal’s hips.

Rain beating against the building, muffling the sounds of their bodies.

A deep shudder shook through Will’s belly, his legs, arms, his cock.

“I’m… Hannibal… _I’m_ -”

Will came first. Body seizing up, muscles pulled tight as he spilled, thick, hot, messy over the bed sheets. Vision white, limbs on fire. Hannibal followed suit seconds later, groaning wild against Will’s skin, biting down on his shoulder, thrusting, frenzied, through the climax, slowing as the wave passed.

They fell against the bed, Hannibal atop Will, sweat and cum and ragged breath. Still but for the heaving of their chests, their backs. Hannibal rolled off of Will, collapsing into the space beside him. A half-minute to catch their breath.

“Well?”

Will rolled his head to the side, pressed into the pillow. “Well, I’m fucking exhausted.”

Hannibal’s smile gleaming against the room, dull from the storm that Will had forgotten about. “I had no idea your language would be so vulgar. Or limited.”

Will laughed, quiet. “Sorry. I forgot about my vast dictionary of expletives in the moment.” 

“No, no. I very much enjoyed it. You enjoyed yourself too, I hope?”

“I think,” Will moved over in the bed, rested his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, draped an arm over his chest. “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

Hannibal shook with a small laugh. Bodies still pulsing with heat. Will filled his lungs to burst with air, exhaled heavy, sank further into the bed, into Hannibal.

“You said my name quite a lot.” Hannibal lowered his voice, Will closed his eyes.

“I figured you liked that.” Words pouring slow, blending together.

“I did.”

“I’ll…” Staved off a yawn. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time...”

Will’s heart fluttered to a faint and slow pace as consciousness fell away from him.

Hannibal’s didn’t. It beat on, strong and steady under Will’s palm.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Will found the note taped to the wall by the door of the office. Underneath it, another piece of paper, an arrow pointing towards the counter where Isela had left the keys. _‘No voy a estar aqui, for few days only.’_ Quick scrawl. A smudge where the pencil tip had broken and graphite had been hastily brushed away. _‘Si necesitas ayuda…’_ A tiny phone number, with the caption _‘primo.’_ At the bottom of the page, _‘Lo siento, Graham’_ and a small frowning face.

It was grueling and tiresome work, Will found, operating the office, the small marina, without his only coworker. Showing up at dawn, working alone all day, and leaving at nightfall, late summer heat harsh and unrelenting. He wondered how Isela managed it by herself on the days he wasn’t there. Appreciated her that much more. He called her cousin on the third day, after a long and frustrating argument with a customer unsatisfied with his repairs, Will’s still broken Spanish complicating things. Isela, unlike most of their customers, was kind enough to speak slowly. Her cousin, Javier, spoke no English, but he and Will communicated well enough. Will was grateful for the barrier, the lack of forced conversation. Especially on the fifth day, when he told Javier that he was leaving, forgoing the awkward explanation that he simply needed a night off to rest.

“There may be a new opening at the church,” Hannibal’s words vibrated in his chest, against Will’s cheekbone. “An opportunity for a new position for me. Almost a promotion.” Rubbing circles on Will’s arm with his thumb.

“Mhmm.” Will’s eyes heavy. Wind rustling the plants on the balcony. Hannibal shifted his knees and Will rolled over in the lounge chair accordingly, muscles along his sides, his spine, loosening with a deep exhale.

“Would you like me to be quiet so you can sleep?” Will felt Hannibal looking down at him.

“No... Keep talking.”

A light kiss on the crown of his head.

“I’m not exactly sure if the position is right for me. I’ve never done anything like it before, but it’s certainly intriguing.”

Will wasn’t pretending to listen. His eyes closed. The ocean and the wind and the balcony began to fade.

“We’ll have to see though,” Hannibal’s voice now a low whisper, blending with the air, the darkness of the back of his eyelids. Will slipped under. “It depends on when I’m able to get him alone.”

The next morning, Will had been in the office for mere minutes when Isela arrived. Messy hair. Skin under her eyes pink, shadowed. Her attempt at a smile crumpled when Will’s eyes met hers, and she turned away. Will stepped forward awkwardly, placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She reached up, patted it with her own hand. His heart beating uncomfortable in his chest, concern pulsing through his arms.

“Are you ok?”

A laugh, a half-attempt to lighten the moment. She turned to face him, wiping away a tear with the back of her palm. “Sí. I will be fine.”

She showed up late most days, and they settled into their unspoken agreement that Will would be the one to open the office each morning, leaving Isela to close. Will didn’t like the idea of leaving her by herself, but she’d been operating the office since she was fifteen, and insisted, on several occasions, that she could handle it. Now and then, the man would come and stay with her until she closed shop.

Will liked that even less than the idea of her alone.

Less than a month passed before Will noticed. Just above the low waistline of her shorts, the slight swell of her belly.

She had seen his stare. Wide eyes, afraid, met Will’s.

“Isela…”

She crossed her arms in front of her abdomen, awkwardly.

“He says…” One hand up to her face, wiping a few hairs off her forehead, then back down, quick, folded in front of her. “Está divorciando su esposa.”

Will’s heart plummeted into his stomach. “Isela,” He began a sentence that had no end. Hoped that she would interpret what he meant to convey.

She did. Her demeanor shifted. “He is, Graham.” Indignant. She stood slightly taller.

Will nodded, slow. “But...” Stepped forward. “Is this what you want?” Breathed in. “Is this… what you _really_ want?”

Isela blinked up at him. Voice a crumbling whisper. “I don’t know.”

Will climbed the stairs to the apartment that evening, head buzzing with a thousand thoughts, an incessant drone, static, drowning out the sounds of the world around him.

“My coworker is pregnant.” Injected into the comfortable silence over their meal, unprompted, wine glass resting against his bottom lip.

The clinking of Hannibal putting down silverware across the table. Will looked towards him but not at him.

“You’ll have to extend my congratulations.”

“No.” Will pinched his fingers tight around the stem of the glass. Put it down on the table. “It’s not exactly a congratulations kind of situation. She’s very young.” Hand now fidgeting at the embroidered corner of the cloth napkin next to his plate.

“My condolences, then.”

Will nodded, sighed, picked up his fork, then put it down again. Eyes fixed themselves on the faint moon, only now half visible in the still blue sky.

“It is,” Hannibal, a deep breath between words, “An unfortunate situation. You seem very bothered by it.”

Will tapped his foot against the floor, chin resting in his palm, mouth obscured by his fingers.

“Why do you think that is, Will?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I… I want to help her. I don’t know why, or how, but I can’t stop thinking about ways in which I can help her.”

“Is she keeping the child?”

The room grew… different. Each passing second heavier and heavier. Will shook his head again. “I-I don’t know…” Staring at a spot on the wall over Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Will.” Words soft, the gentleness grating in Will’s ears. “It is an idea that I too have entertained.”

Will suddenly felt sick. Embarrassed.

“But it’s not practical for us. Not now.”

Will’s chair scraping against the floor was ear splittingly loud. “I know.” He snatched his meal, half finished, from the table. “I know.”

Isela wasn’t nearly as bothered by her situation as Will was, it seemed. She acted as if nothing had changed. She was often fatigued, or sick, and she made sure never to stay in the unforgiving heat of the Spanish sun for too long, but for the most part, everything was as it always had been. Now and then Will would see her, resting against the counter, hand laid absentmindedly across her belly, and his throat would tighten in a sort of indescribable sadness.

Nothing, however, compared to the overwhelming uneasiness Will felt whenever he left her to close with the man – Estevo. Will had learned his name one night when Isela finally introduced them. White marks on both of their hands from the grip of the handshake.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Bible study? I thought your work at the church had something to do with music.”

“It does, but I’ve taken on some additional duties.”

“Hmm…ok.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. Bible study doesn’t really seem like your thing.”

“It isn’t, necessarily, but my interest was piqued when a position opened up.”

“…a position opened up?”

Hannibal’s smile was familiar and sickening.

Will put down his fork, face fell. “That better not be what I’m eating right now.”

“Of course not, darling.” Hannibal moved his hand forward, tips of his fingers sliding up the creases between Will’s, resting his palm on top of Will’s hand. Teasing. Will met Hannibal’s warm smile with an annoyed one of his own.

“Don’t call me that.” Soft laughter and the smell of thyme. An amiable threat, “Or I’ll start calling you babe.”

Hannibal laughed through his words, shoulders shaking. “Please don’t.”

Hannibal, to Will’s dismay, started hosting the gatherings at their apartment. Once or twice every two weeks, Will would return, covered in sweat and oil and the heat of the day to find a group of people, sitting in a circle of their dining chairs out on the balcony. There were always around twelve to fifteen people, sometimes more, sometimes less. Several elderly couples, a handful of middle aged men, a few younger women, one or two teenagers. Some clutched small weathered bibles in their hands, others, rosaries. The men sat backwards in their chairs, chins resting on crossed arms, nodding along with the group now and then. Will got to know the consistent members, but by face, never by name. He avoided them as often as possible, usually retreating to the bedroom. Now and then he would linger in the kitchen, the dining room, and cast glances towards the group.

The way they watched him. Their eyes, wide, glued to Hannibal as he spoke, sitting casually on the arm of one of their patio armchairs, gesturing with his hands, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The way his hair fell in front of his forehead whenever they dipped their head in prayer. The way his eyes flicked up to meet Will’s when no one else was looking.

Hannibal gestured for Will to join them one evening. He did so, begrudgingly, only for fear of being rude. Hannibal moved over and made room for him to sit in the armchair. Hannibal himself sat on the edge, one hand resting light atop Will’s shoulder as he spoke. Sun low in the pastel pink sky. Air dry and pleasant and warm. They spoke of heaven, the younger members silent as the elderly members spoke of what they believed they’d see. Walking forever with God, returning to their childhood homes, reuniting with loved ones.

Will leaned his shoulder to Hannibal’s side.

Wondered if this was what life was supposed to feel like.

If this feeling, this peace, was truly and finally his.

“What did you think?”

Will, still on the balcony, Hannibal still at his side, watching the last elderly couple wave goodbye behind them as they left through the front door. “It was nice. Really nice, Hannibal.”

“Thank you.” A quick kiss to Will’s temple.

“The woman with the shorter hair.” Will’s words drawn slow. “The older one, in blue. She’s dying?”

“An astute observation.” Hannibal stood.

Will shifted into the space Hannibal had left empty beside him, settling, comfortable, into the chair. “Well, she talked a lot about heaven, and she talked pretty firmly. Though fast, I couldn’t understand everything.”

“She said,” Hannibal sat in one of the empty chairs, next to Will. “She believes that she will be reunited with her mother, her sister, and her father. And once she is joined by her husband, they will walk together into the eternity of God’s kingdom.” He nodded, thoughtful, to himself. “A far better belief than what the previous studies leader taught. According to him, she’d waste away in purgatory for thousands of years until the second coming of Christ.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up, head tilted an inch to the side. “Is that why you killed him?”

Hannibal’s eyes snapped to Will’s. “One of many reasons.”

Will stared.

“Does that bother you?”

Silence, then, “No.”

Both his eyes and Hannibal’s drifted seaward. Directly above them, pale flecks of stars, the outset of night. Yellow sky against a navy horizon.

“What do you believe?”

Hannibal sat back in his chair, fingers curling around the edge of the armrest. “I believe…” He spent a moment in thought. Will watched him chew his tongue through his cheek. “Heaven itself is a state of being, to exist entirely in God’s presence. However God manifests himself varies from individual to individual.”

Hannibal left a space in his words for Will to talk, but the space was left as just that, so he continued.

“Personally, I believe heaven might resemble something similar to my memory palace.” Hannibal’s eyes floated up from the horizon. Will watched them, ardent. “A perpetually changing collection of places and people where I have found God.”

Hannibal turned towards Will, a knowing glint in the black of his eyes.

Will leaned forward. Drank in the evening, drank in Hannibal. Another space for him to speak. He took it.

“I… don’t know what I believe.” Laced his fingers together. “I’d like to think there’s something like that. That… after…” He rocked forward, then backward, in thought, elbows on his knees. “I’d go somewhere?”

A small twitch of his brow. “You know,” The edge of a smile. Cast the knowing glance back to Hannibal. “The quiet of the stream.”

Hannibal’s edges softened, shoulders lowering, mouth parted in the middle. “That I ever tried to send you there,” arms limp, “I’ll never forgive myself.”

Will’s eyes wandered the clouds in mock-thought. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”

Hannibal laughed and the haze encircling the moon grew brighter. “I did, I suppose.” Smile fading. “I didn’t understand… I was wholly unable to comprehend the intensity or the depth of what I felt towards you.”

He lifted his arm, palm outstretched. Will stood, floated to him, took his hand.

Tender eyes and silken words. “It affected every part of me. Undid what I was, who I knew myself to be.”

Will settled onto Hannibal, straddling his legs. Hannibal took Will’s face into his hands, running his thumb along the scar left by Dolarhyde’s knife.

“My sweet Will.”

Will took Hannibal’s hand, moved it to his mouth, lips against Hannibal’s palm, the scars on his wrists. Eyes locked onto each other.

“Do you understand now?”

Hannibal pressed his _‘yes’_ to Will’s lips, firm and resolute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. It got re-written and chopped up a good few times, and I had to restructure the rest of the chapters. I'm going to tentatively say it'll be around 13 chapters now, though, depending on how things go, it might end up at 14 (with one small chapter).
> 
> Here is a link to a post on my tumblr with the Spanish to English translations:
> 
> http://feyestwords.tumblr.com/private/145892543014/tumblr_o8qtidKHwJ1vo9frt
> 
> also, in case anyone was wondering. he prepped with spit. (gross, hannibal) it's just sort of... implied. i promise i know how sex works.


End file.
